Poenitentia
by Alydia Rackham
Summary: SATISFYING CONCLUSION TO HEROES. Sequel to PURGATORY. Keeping step with a fairytale, this is the story of Sylar's redemption in the eyes of the one who matters most, with the help of Peter, Emma, and the threat of death.
1. Chapter 1

_Sequel to PURGATORY. What happens when an unstoppable force meets and immovable object? One of them must yield. Keeping step with a fairytale, this is the story of Sylar's redemption in the eyes of the one who matters most, with the help of Peter, Emma, and the threat of certain death. NO SLASH_

_This is a sequel to either "Purgatory", "Brave New World," or both. The fairytale text is by Andrew Lang, 1889. Claire's pieces will be in first person, the others in third._

_VVVVVVVV_

_Poenitentia_

_Latin for "Penance."_

"_An act of self-abasement, mortification, or devotion performed to show sorrow or repentance for sin."_

_VVV_

"I'm not exactly Prince Charming. More like…Beauty and the Beast."

"Yeah, well, the last time I checked," Peter said, kicking back in the chair again. "That story didn't exactly end with 'And the Beast lived miserably by himself ever after."

Sylar said nothing for a long moment.

"Yes," he finally murmured. "You're right."

-PURGATORY

VVV

PROLOGUE

Peter stood next to Gabriel. Their shoulders almost touched. No alarm registered in Peter's mind. In fact, he barely noticed Gabriel was there. But he would be disconcerted if he wasn't there—just as he would be if he glanced down on a sunny day to discover his shadow had vanished.

Their feet were planted on worn grass, their eyes cast upward to watch the distant Ferris Wheel that blazed colorfully against the backdrop of the dark sky. Neither one moved as a golden-haired girl leaped from the height of it and fell to the earth with a thud. Peter glanced at Gabriel. His pale face looked almost proud, his black eyes glinting.

Through the crowd of panicked reporters and the flashes of camera bulbs, the duo watched the girl pick herself up from the ground, relocate her right shoulder, and dust the dead grass off herself. Then she advanced on the frenzied paparazzi, and began speaking to them with the poise of a queen.

"You wanna go talk to her?" Peter asked.

Gabriel's head whipped around.

"What?"

Peter turned to him. Gabriel's look of pride was gone, replaced by one of fear. Peter smirked.

"She isn't going to eat you."

"Right," Gabriel's voice cracked. "Forgive me if that isn't comforting."

"Better now than later," Peter assured him. "Before you have time to get worked up about it, and before she and her dad have time to hear rumors about you."

Gabriel swallowed hard, but nodded. Peter slapped his arm, giving a crooked smile.

"Come on. I'll introduce you."

"She's already met me," Gabriel protested weakly. Peter shook his head once.

"No, she hasn't."

**CHAPTER ONE**

_Once upon a time,_

_in a far-off country,_

_There lived a merchant who was enormously rich. _

_As he had six sons and six daughters, however…_

_He did not find he had a penny too much._

_But misfortunes befell them._

_One day, their house caught fire and speedily burned to the ground…_

_The father suddenly lost every ship he had upon the sea,_

_Either by dint of pirates, shipwreck or fire…_

_And at last from great wealth he fell into direst poverty._

_So nothing was left for them but to take their departure to the cottage,_

_Which stood in the midst of a dark forest._

_Roughly clothed, and living in the simplest way,_

_The girls regretted unceasingly the luxuries and amusements of their former life…_

_Only the youngest daughter tried to be brave and cheerful…_

_But she was really far prettier and cleverer than they were._

_Indeed, she was so lovely she was always called_

_Beauty._

_VVV_

I couldn't believe what I was seeing. I mean, who would? I hadn't even had dreams as far-fetched as this. But I'd barely gotten halfway through all the reporters' questions when I saw them coming toward me from across the abandoned carnival grounds.

Two men. They were dressed in black, and they walked in stride with each other. One man was taller than the other. They both had dark hair and dark eyes. I recognized them instantly.

One was Peter Petrelli, my young uncle, whose determined face I had not seen since he almost got himself shot in a cubicle a little while ago. I loved him fiercely.

The other…

The other was the monster that had haunted my nightmares for years. His voice came out of the silence when I was alone in my room. I looked for his shadow when I walked at night. Any mention of his name sent searing pain straight through my head, and sickness plunging into my gut.

Sylar.

And yet Peter was walking beside him, comfortable and purposeful. Straight at me.

I could not react. I could not breathe.

I just froze there, staring.

Dad swore from behind me, and grabbed my shoulder. The reporters went silent. Peter and Sylar halted behind the group with the cameras. Peter looked calm. Something flashed across Sylar's black eyes. He took a step behind Peter.

"That's enough questions for right now," Dad said over my head, voice booming. I sensed that the reporters would have argued under normal circumstances, but the looks on our faces must have been a glaring signal that something was not right. And so they slowly drifted away, curious, but probably still shaken enough about what I'd just done that they were willing to leave.

And finally, the barrier that they had created that blocked Peter and Sylar from Dad and me was gone. Silence fell.

My eyes locked with Sylar's. His expression was unreadable—but his black gaze plunged straight into my heart.

"Peter," Dad said, as if he was talking to someone who held a loaded gun. "What is this?"

Peter cleared his throat and glanced back at Sylar. Sylar finally broke contact with me and looked at Peter, shifting his weight.

"Noah, Claire…" Peter said, stepping to the side of Sylar and gesturing to him. "This is Gabriel."

Sylar looked at me again. The skin tightened around his eyes, and he gave me a feeble smile. A glance at my dad made him turn his eyes to the ground.

"Gabriel." The disbelieving sarcasm in my dad's voice was unmistakable. I could do nothing but gape. Peter nodded firmly at Dad.

"That's right."

Silence. Dad's grip tightened on my shoulder.

"What is he doing here?" he demanded.

"He just saved all those people…and Emma," Peter said, glancing behind him. I forced my eyes to focus beyond Sylar to where a young, blonde lady who waited by the base of a motionless ride. She saw Peter turn, and began to walk toward us. But like gravity, my eyes were pulled back to Sylar, who watched me still.

"Oh, and how did he do that?" My dad was not giving an inch.

"Samuel was using Emma to call people here, so that he could open the earth and kill them all. That's her power—to use music to call people," Peter told him, standing closer to Sylar. Sylar's eyes flickered downward again. Peter went on. "Doyle was forcing Emma to play the cello to lure them here. Sylar stopped him."

"And what did you do?" I finally said through my teeth. "Slice his head open? Or cut his throat?"

Sylar blinked. When he spoke, his voice was unsteady.

"No, I…I tied him between two metal poles and secured him with a string of lights." His eyes darted between mine and my dad's. "I used the electrical surges to disable his power. He's…" he pointed behind him. "…in one of the tents back there."

I frowned deeply. Something was so off balance. My gut churned and my head felt light, but I couldn't figure out what it was. I had memorized Sylar's face a long time ago—unconsciously but irrevocably—his heavy eyebrows, prominent nose, delicate mouth and limitless black eyes, but as I saw him now, I didn't recognize him. The shadows had gone around his eyes—they didn't seem hooded, or as dark, or…

My thoughts thudded to a stop. I knew why I was confused. It was because Sylar was standing next to Peter in the exact way Nathan always had.

Motion penetrated the haze when Emma, a plain-looking lady about Peter's age who had pretty eyes, soft features and blonde hair, came up behind the two men. But the wary look she gave was to me and Dad—she settled just behind Sylar's shoulder, like an uncertain family cat beside the family dog. He glanced at her. They smiled at each other. I almost fell over.

"Claire, Noah, this is Emma," Peter said. Then he leaned around Sylar so she could see his face. "Emma, this is my niece Claire, and her step-dad, Noah Bennet."

"Nice to meet you," Emma said, extending her right hand to me and keeping her left in her pocket. I recognized instantly that she was deaf, by the manner of her speech, but I saw that her eyes had been keen and quick when Peter spoke—she probably could read lips. I limply shook her hand. Dad just nodded at her. And then Peter lifted his head and looked past Dad and me.

"Hiro, Ando, this is Emma and Gabriel."

Rustling issued from behind me, and I turned to see Hiro, followed closely by an uncertain Ando, creep out from behind a tall shrub. They came up to stand beside Dad. Hiro's eyes narrowed at Sylar.

"Why is the Brain Man here?" His voice was low and dangerous.

Peter sighed and ran his hand through his hair, looking at all of us. It was only then that I realized how weary he appeared, as if he had not slept in weeks.

"Look, Gabriel and I are gonna go to my place, eat and crash, so why doesn't everybody come along and we can tell you what's been happening, and I can fix Emma's hand, okay?"

Sylar turned to him sharply.

"I don't want to be an imposition."

Peter gave him an indignant look.

"An imposition? What are you talking about?"

Sylar's eyebrows went up.

"I just thought, after the past five—"

"Heck no, I've got that whole huge—"

"Yes, you do have that one empty room. If you just gave me a pillow, I'd be—"

"Dude, I'm not gonna let you sleep on the hard floor. I've got an air mattress."

"Peter?" I cut in, my voice shaking, tears burning the edges of my eyes. I felt like the ground was crumbling out from beneath my feet.

Peter stopped and regarded me. Then, before I could react, he had stepped forward and wrapped me up in a hug. Dad reflexively let go of me. And Peter's arms tightened around me and he leaned his head down onto my shoulder—as if he hadn't seen me in years.

"I have so much to tell you, Claire," he murmured. "It's okay. I'm right here." He backed up and put his hands on my shoulders, his bright eyes capturing mine. "But we need to get out of here. Will you come with me so I can tell you?"

"Peter," Dad cautioned, but Peter ignored him. So did I. I swallowed my tears and nodded. Glancing past Peter, I saw Sylar give me a soft look. I went cold. Peter took my arm and guided me out of the park, with Dad, Hiro, Ando, Emma…and Sylar trailing behind.

TO BE CONTINUED


	2. Chapter 2

_Thanks for the reviews, faithful readers! Oh, and you'll have to forgive me: I don't have the exact details and layout of Peter's apartment memorized, so if there are a couple discrepancies, just remember that I didn't make the mistakes on purpose. ;) Thanks, and please review more!!_

_VVVVV_

CHAPTER TWO

"Why did we run?" Ando panted from behind us. "And why did we go down all those alleys?"

All of our feet pounded on the stairs up to Peter's apartment. It was like he had forgotten about the elevator. Peter still grasped my arm.

"The reporters didn't leave," Peter gritted. "And they tried to follow us."

"I noticed that," Sylar commented. "They chased all the way to the church before we lost them—they didn't want to climb over the wall, I suppose."

"Peter—" I tried.

"Just a sec, Claire," he cut me off. We reached his floor, he dug in his pocket and brought out his jingling keys, and rammed them into a lock on a door. The door swung open and he urged me inside, then turned and put a hand on Emma's shoulder and spoke to her earnestly.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah," she nodded, giving him a warm look. Dad pushed past her, eyes wide but jaw tight, and came right up to my side.

"Claire, I don't know what's going on here," he hissed in my ear so no one else could hear. "But I wouldn't put it past Sylar to have taken Parkman's ability."

My heart thudded and my gaze flashed to his.

"You mean—"

Dad gave me a meaningful look.

"Peter could be—"

The door shut, the lights flipped on, and the deadbolt clacked as Peter latched it. All of us stood inside the dimly-lit apartment—Emma, Peter and Sylar near the door, Dad and I opposite them, and Hiro and Ando somewhat apart. I risked a glance around. Peter's apartment really was empty. There was a little eating area with a table, a door that led into a kitchen that had a refrigerator and stuff, and another room behind us that looked like a bedroom. But there was no rug, no curtains, no pictures, nothing. A pang ran through me.

Peter turned around and appraised the place, then let out a long sigh.

"We're gonna have to pack this place with books or it's never gonna feel right."

Sylar looked at him, then gave a reflexive grin.

"Then maybe half a dozen clocks—what do you think?" Peter didn't smile, but winked at him as he walked past him and took hold of Emma's elbow. Sylar blinked, then nodded.

"Yes, I agree."

I was so bewildered. I felt numb all over. All I could do—in fact, all that Dad, Hiro and Ando could do, either—was watch as Peter guided Emma into the kitchen while Sylar followed. Now Peter and Emma were blocked from our view by a wall, but Sylar stood just through the door, in front of the fridge, observing them.

"Do you want to sit down?" Peter asked Emma, from out of our view.

"Yes, please."

We heard the sound of a stool scraping the floor.

"Do your fingers hurt much?" Peter wondered.

"It stings, and it hurts down deep," Emma answered.

"Gabriel, can you get me the antiseptic?"

We saw Sylar straighten.

"Where is it?"

"In the cupboard." We heard Peter walk across the kitchen to get something else. Sylar turned around and faced the line of cupboards above him.

"Um…" he said.

"It's right there," Peter grunted, pulling a box out from under something.

I so wanted to go in there, to be near Peter, to try and get some answers, but Sylar's presence loomed like a black shadow before me, and I couldn't take even one step toward that kitchen.

Sylar reached up and pulled open one of the cupboards. A box of crackers, another box of plastic forks, and two cans of olives greeted him.

"Not here," Sylar said, sounding befuddled.

"It's in the one next to it," I heard Peter set a box down on a table—probably a first aid kit. Sylar sighed, shut that cupboard and opened another. There stood a jar of pickles, two jars of oil, a box of noodles, and a bottle of blue antiseptic. Sylar turned and gave Peter a bemused look.

"It's with the pickles?" he said flatly. I heard Emma chuckle.

"What?" Peter protested. Sylar gave him a look of disbelief.

"That makes no sense."

"_I _know where it is."

"That's stupid—I could reach for the cooking oil and dump antiseptic on my eggs."

Emma laughed again.

"Speaking of eggs," Sylar said as he pulled the antiseptic down. "I'm really feeling like raiding your fridge right now."

"Go for it," Peter said, and for a second I saw him as he took the bottle from Sylar. Then he went back to attending Emma. Sylar turned and opened the door of the fridge. I could not see what was inside—his back blocked it.

"Oh, Pete, please tell me you have something to drink besides bottled water," Sylar moaned. "I'd even settle for orange juice."

"Oh, understandable," Peter said heartily. "I think I have some five-year-old milk in the back there… I don't remember."

"Good. I swear, I am never drinking bottled water again for the rest of my life."

"You and me both."

Sylar bent over the fridge, leaning on the top of the door with his left arm. I glanced at Dad, then at Hiro and Ando. But they were watching Sylar like three hawks.

As he considered the options in Peter's fridge, Sylar put his right hand to his chin and rubbed it. Then he stopped.

"Holy cow, Peter…" he said, slowly straightening and looking over at Peter.

"What?"

Sylar's face looked like he had just had a revelation.

"I need to shave."

"That's _awesome,_" Peter declared. I looked at Ando out of the corner of my eye.

"Is anybody else _really _confused?" I breathed.

"Me," Hiro said, still fixed on the kitchen.

"I'm not," Dad gritted. "It's obvious Sylar has Peter under some sort of mind control."

"If that is true," Hiro mused. "Why would Sylar not know where the blue bottle was?"

"And why would Peter call him 'Gabriel'?" Ando added.

"It's an act," Dad insisted. "Sylar's maintaining an illusion so that—"

Sylar looked at him. Dad stopped. Peter stuck his head around the doorframe, frowning.

"What did you say?" He looked upset. Sylar shut the fridge and folded his arms over his chest.

"He thinks I've crawled inside _your _head, now."

Peter rolled his eyes and held up a placating hand.

"Would you guys please just give us a second before you start discussing conspiracy theories?"

Sylar watched as Peter went back to work, then arched an eyebrow at Dad, his voice cold.

"Peter hammered against a wall that didn't move for five years. He's too stubborn to get brainwashed."

"I guess I'll take that as a compliment?" Peter said from out of sight. Sylar inclined his head to him.

"That's how it was intended."

"_What?_" I finally demanded. "What wall?"

Sylar's eyes flew to mine—it was as if my voice had thrown him off balance.

"Just a sec, Claire, okay?" Peter said instead. I barely heard him. Sylar's eyes were flitting over my features. I tried to mask my emotion, but it was as if he was seeing right through me. I hated it. And apparently he didn't like it either—he swallowed and he looked away.

"Okay, Emma," Peter said, and the stool squeaked again. Peter led Emma out of the kitchen by the hand, as if he had been holding her fingers and just forgot to let go. Sylar ducked his head and filed out behind them, keeping his gaze away from me. Dad pulled me back. Hiro shifted to just in front of me. I bit back a protest. They liked to protect me, the immortal invincible. I wasn't in the mood.

Peter stopped and cast his gaze over all of us—and suddenly he smiled. I blinked. He secured his hold on Emma's hand, which surprised her. He then stepped forward and slapped Hiro's arm, then pulled Emma to the table. Sylar winced, but followed Emma between Ando and Hiro. Peter went to the head of the table and sat down, guiding Emma into the chair to his left, and then motioning to Sylar. Sylar eased down next to Peter and Peter briefly rested his free hand on Sylar's shoulder—his other hand on the table, his fingers interlaced with Emma's, again, as if he had forgotten about it.

At the sight in front of me, I really had to fight to choke back my tears. I had no idea who this Emma was, and Peter and Sylar…

I didn't know my uncle anymore.

"Have a seat," Peter urged, gesturing to the other empty chairs. There were only two. Hiro turned to me, and then bowed slightly. I gritted my teeth, then stepped forward and slipped into one of the chairs. The piece of furniture felt cold. The men hesitated, but then Hiro settled down next to me. I heard Dad cross his arms and move up right behind me. Sylar cleared his throat and shifted, hunching his shoulders and staring at the table top.

"Okay…" Peter sighed, meeting each one of our gazes in turn. "We've got a really long story for you."

TO BE CONTINUED


	3. Chapter 3

_Sorry I haven't updated sooner! But life has been crazy, and this is a long chapter! Hope you enjoy! Review, please!!_

VVVVVVVVV

CHAPTER THREE

"Do you want to go first or should I?" Peter asked.

"Hm?" Sylar sat up. Peter turned to him. And as I watched, they were suddenly focused on each other as if they were the only two in the room.

"Do you want to start the story?" Peter prompted.

Sylar's eyebrows went up.

"Well, considering that your part starts when you had that dream about—"

"Yeah, your decisions started way before that, then—"

"Right. I ought to—"

"Yeah, and then I'll come in when—"

"Okay. I guess I'll…" Sylar rubbed his hands together, eyes distant, as if searching for the answer to a riddle he'd learned when he was a kid.

"I am actually…glad you're all here," he began, his gaze downcast. "Because all of you played a part in this story, whether you knew it or not." For just an instant, he lifted his eyes to mine. And then he took a deep breath—and when he began to talk, his voice reminded me of an old teacher I'd had, who had been very good at reading sad, scary stories.

"A long time ago, I was out…hunting, as had become my custom. I came across the Burnt Toast Diner on my way to…" he trailed off, then started on a different track. "Outside of it, in an alley, I met Hiro, who I soon discovered had a power infinitely more formidable than any of mine."

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Hiro straighten. Sylar went on.

"He was the master of space and time, and no matter how I tried, my powers couldn't touch him."

The obvious question lodged in my throat: Then why was Sylar still alive…?

"He didn't kill me," Sylar said, in rhythm with my thoughts. "Because he needed my help."

"What?" Ando cried. "You went to _him_ for help? When was this?"

But Hiro had locked eyes with Sylar.

"He will tell you," he said evenly. Sylar nodded once.

"He needed me to remove an aneurism from the brain of one of his friends. Her name was Charlie."

"Did you?" Dad pressed. Sylar looked at him, but Hiro spoke.

"He did. His true power is to know what is wrong, and how to fix it. He fixed Charlie."

I saw Sylar's eyes mist over, and he swallowed, averting his gaze.

"He didn't do that for free," I said, my voice low. "What did you have to give him in return, Hiro?"

"He offered to tell me my future," Sylar said, quiet. Ando raised his eyebrows and leaned toward his friend.

"What did you say?"

Hiro did not move.

"I told him he would become the most powerful of all." His brow tightened. "But he would die alone."

Sylar's eyebrow twitched. Peter gazed over at him, as if he understood. Emma studied them both without wavering.

"So…did you make that up?" Dad asked.

"No." Hiro shook his head once, then hesitated. "And yes. I…I was there from the future."

Sylar's eyes flashed.

"What? How…why?"

"To save Charlie," Hiro said firmly. "From the aneurism…and from you."

Sylar's expression flickered.

"What?"

"You killed Charlie," Hiro said. "Cut off her head and took her power. So I went back to stop you."

Sylar was frozen. And then he swallowed convulsively, as if he was about to be sick. He sat back in his chair.

"Hey," Peter leaned toward him, brow furrowed. "Weren't you listening? You didn't kill her—you saved her from her aneurism. She's still alive and doing okay, right Hiro?"

"Yes," Hiro admitted. "She is very happy."

Peter nodded.

"Keep going."

Sylar took a breath.

"After Charlie, I continued with my plan," he said, his voice evening out as he went. "I had done some tracing, finding people whose powers I wanted to acquire, and the next on my list was…" His throat closed. "I learned about a cheerleader who could—"

It was as if he had reached inside my chest and squeezed my heart. I couldn't breathe. But neither could he. He had stopped again. Then, he stood up, sending the chair grinding backward, and went completely pale. He sucked in a shattered breath.

"Peter, I can't do this."

Peter let go of Emma's hand and rose to his feet. He slid an arm up around Sylar's shoulders and leaned his forehead close to the side of Sylar's. Sylar's jaw clenched, and his eyes saw nothing.

"Listen," Peter said, and I could barely hear him. "I would tell the story if I could—you know I would. But I don't know this part, okay? Like you said, they all know a lot of it. You can make it quick if you want. We're just covering the bases."

"Okay," Sylar breathed, nodding once. "Okay…" He ran a hand through his hair. "I went to Claire and took her power. I found out about other people who had abilities and I chased them down as well." His voice softened to almost nothing. "I killed quite a few of them."

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Emma's brow darken. I wrapped my arms around myself and clenched my fists. Dad rested a hand on my shoulder. Peter lowered his arm, but his shoulder still touched Sylar's, and he didn't look at anyone else. Sylar stared at the table.

"The next important thing that happened was…" He cleared his throat, and he gave a short, lopsided smile. "I got in a scuffle with Peter…and his brother, Nathan." Sylar's eyes went blank. "I killed Nathan."

I twitched like someone had shocked me. The same instant, Sylar closed his eyes. Peter didn't move. But I got up and shoved my chair back. Sylar's surprised gaze locked with mine, but this time, I was ready.

"I can't believe it," I choked, tears stinging me. "You acknowledge that you did that and you still have the _gall _to come in here and stand in his brother's apartment, trying to _explain _yourself to us?" My tone gained strength and I pointed at him. "How _dare _you? How dare you even _pretend _to have—"

"Enough, Claire," Peter snapped—the words were like thunder. I swallowed hard. My shaking hand lowered. Peter ducked his head, his eyes softening.

"Just give the man a chance, here, okay? Let him finish."

"No," Sylar breathed. "No, she's right."

"No, she isn't," Peter stated, then straightened and faced us. "Sylar was put out of commission in that fight. Noah Bennet and a few others," Peter gestured to Dad. "Had the idea to use Matt Parkman's mental abilities to strip Nathan's memories out of Nathan's dead body, put them inside _Sylar's _body, obliterate Sylar, and have that body shape-shift into Nathan. In theory, Sylar would then be dead, and Nathan would still be alive." Peter let out a small sigh. I ached all over.

Hiro frowned deeply.

"That is a bad plan."

"We didn't think so at the time," Dad countered. Hiro twisted in his chair and glared at Dad.

"Nathan was a good man. But he knew what he was up against when he went into the fight. Putting him inside a body with a villain after he is dead is _not_," he held up a finger. "A good plan."

"That _wasn't _the plan," Dad protested. "We got rid of Sylar."

Now, Hiro, Ando and Emma looked so confused, it was like Dad was speaking Russian. Then, Hiro mutely pointed at Sylar, who stood there behind Peter, head lowered. Dad heaved a sigh.

"I know. That wasn't supposed to happen."

"How did you make that mistake?" Ando demanded, turning on Dad.

"They assumed I didn't have a soul," Sylar murmured. Hollow silence followed.

"So you lived in one brain with Nathan," Hiro prompted, turning back to him. Sylar shook his head.

"No. Somehow, I transferred to Parkman's head."

Emma reached up and pressed her hands to her temples, then gave an overwhelmed look to Peter. Peter saw her.

"Oh, it gets better," he said.

"I almost drove Matt crazy," Sylar confessed. "I got him all shot up. But in the end, I was able to hop back into my own body. But Nathan was still in there with me. Then, Peter came after me."

Peter's head bowed. Sylar glanced at him.

"He…persuaded me to let Nathan out for a while—"

"I took the Hatian's power and crucified Sylar with a nail gun," Peter stated. My brow tightened as imaginings of Sylar's screams flashed through my mind. My stomach turned. It shouldn't have. But it made me sink back down into my chair.

Peter and Sylar were silent a moment, Peter's head still low, and Sylar smiled lopsidedly again.

"Barely felt it," he said. Peter coughed and ran a hand through his hair, then gave Sylar an unreadable look. Sylar's gaze softened, and he drew himself up, then faced us.

"I let Nathan out, and he talked with Peter for a while. But Nathan was weak, and fading. I was angry at Peter for the…nails." He rubbed the center of his right hand. "But I tried. I wasn't able to withdraw like that for very long, though—not from my own body. My brain automatically started taking control again, of my breathing, my synapses, my heartbeat, everything." He shrugged. "Even if I wanted to share heads with Nathan forever, I couldn't have. Nathan knew that. He let me go."

Emma, watching Peter, slipped her hand up and touched his fingertips. He took her hand in his. Sylar let out an unsteady breath.

"I wasn't the same after that. I couldn't be," he said. "Nathan had left a lot of his memories with me." He shrugged. "Sometimes I couldn't distinguish between mine and his." His gaze swept over us, then landed on Peter. "And I wasn't able to go back to the way I had been. I didn't _want _to. But I didn't know what to do instead. So I went searching for an answer."

I felt Dad lean closer to the table. Hiro and Ando hardly breathed—they were listening. I wasn't breathing either, and Peter was intent upon Sylar. Sylar thought a moment, not looking at any of us.

"I went back to Samuel…" he stopped, and shook his head. "No, I went…_Nathan _had been with Samuel…and I went where he had been…but I couldn't make myself kill Samuel. And he confronted me about it. He said I couldn't kill him because I had no connections, no friends. Because Hiro Nakamura told me I would die alone." Sylar swallowed, gazing at Hiro. "I honestly hadn't thought about it…but then I remembered. When it all came crashing down on me—I couldn't stand it. I knew Samuel was right. About that, at least. And so I took a power from one of the others there. Lydia was her name." He held up a hand. "I didn't hurt her. I don't have to, anymore. She could find out people's deep desires just by touching them, and also, if ink was injected into her skin, it would form a tattoo of _her _deepest desire."

"That's weird," Ando shook his head. Sylar shrugged crookedly.

"It worked."

"And?" Hiro prompted. Sylar froze. He swallowed again, then cleared his throat.

"And the tattoo led me to Matt Parkman—I wanted him to strip me of my powers. All of them. So that I wouldn't be…tempted anymore." Sylar's eyes fell on me. I went still.

He wasn't lying. But he wasn't telling the truth, either. Maybe he was concerned that my dad would try to kill him. Maybe he thought _I _would.

But no. That wasn't the look he was giving me.

It was a deep, sad look, full of swelling emotion…

My cheeks grew hot, and my lips burned. I looked down.

"I think I can pick it up from here," Peter said. "I borrowed a power from my mom, because she had expressed some concern about one of her dreams. I had the same dream she did. I dreamed that Emma was luring thousands of people to their deaths by playing a cello…" He looked to Sylar. "And Sylar saved her."

We all straightened. I knew about my grandmother's powers. I remembered the devastating effects some of the dreams had had. I also knew better than to disregard them. It was obvious Peter knew the same.

He looked down at Emma.

"I couldn't let anything bad happen to Emma," he murmured, as she gazed back up at him. "So I went to find Sylar."

"Seriously?" Dad cried. "Just like that?"

"Just like that," Peter told him firmly. "I went to Parkman, to ask for his help. But as soon as I shook his hand, I knew what he'd done."

"What had he done?" Hiro asked.

"He'd betrayed Sylar's trust, and locked him in a prison made of his worst nightmare."

My stomach really turned now. What would _Sylar's _worst nightmare be like? Spewing blood and rending bones? Guts and screams and darkness too horrible and gruesome for even _him?_

"What?" Hiro said, confused. "A prison?"

"He put him in a coma," Peter explained. "Locked him inside his own head, then stuck his body in a corner of his basement and was building a brick wall over him."

Hiro threw his hands in the air.

"Also a bad plan! For how long would this work? What happens when, in a hundred years, the house falls down? What if a new family moved in and tore out the wall?"

Sylar smirked.

"I don't think he thought of that."

"So what did you do, Peter?" Emma asked. I blinked, surprised she had finally spoken.

"I borrowed Parkman's power," Peter said. "I went down in that basement and…I got inside Sylar's head."

Complete silence fell. I couldn't take my eyes from Peter. Slowly, I shook my head, unable to tell him how stupid and reckless I thought he was. I was too blown away.

"What did you find?" Ando asked, eyes narrowed. Peter shrugged.

"I found Sylar. In a completely empty city."

For a moment, that didn't register. Then my eyes darted back and forth between Peter and Sylar.

"Wait, what?" I managed. "I thought you said it was his worst nightmare."

"It was," Sylar said quietly. "It had been three hours since Parkman had put me there; three hours before Peter came in to get me. But to me it was three years."

Slowly, my mouth fell open. Sylar nodded once.

"Three years, I was totally alone. There weren't even any _birds_."

I went cold.

_I_ had a reoccurring nightmare like that. I would run through the silent streets of my hometown, screaming for my mom, my dad, my brother—my friends, anyone I could think of. But no one answered. Every door was open, but every house was empty. And no, there weren't even any birds.

And _that _was _Sylar's…?_

Peter and Sylar exchanged a glance.

"I tried to get him out of there," Peter said. "But I couldn't. Parkman had designed it that way. We were there a month before the way out presented itself. And it showed up because Sylar decided he really did want to help me."

"What was it?" Hiro wondered.

"A wall," Sylar said. "A big, stupid brick wall."

Peter let out a deep sigh, as if the very thought of it made him weary.

"And so…the two of us beat on that wall with hammers…for five years."

I stood up again. But I couldn't say anything. My mind was reeling again. Peter and Sylar now only regarded each other, and their comments went back and forth, like a tennis match.

"I made Peter angry and he beat me up—"

"I shouldn't have—"

"Yes, you should. Then I tried to kill myself—"

"I had to stop you—"

"I am glad you did. Peter broke one hammer—"

"I nearly blinded myself—"

"We had to take a break for a while, and I read to him—"

"I nearly drove myself crazy—"

"Every day we worked on the wall—"

"You found that Bible—"

"Changed everything—"

"Nothing we did to that Wall worked—"

"We did our best to keep each other from losing our minds—"

"We talked about everything—"

"Yes, pretty much everything. I told you how sorry I was about Nathan—"

"I didn't believe you. Not until the fourth year came around, and I smashed—"

"All my clocks. But I told you not to worry about it—"

"I broke them all, and that was stupid of me. And you forgave me—"

"Of course I did."

"And in the fifth year I finally realized that the problem was me."

Sylar stopped. He frowned at Peter. Peter nodded.

"You were right, you know. I was the one keeping us in there." His voice quieted. "I _was _afraid to let you out."

Sylar's eyes flashed.

"And your acknowledgement that I had changed—"

"The fact that I _believed _it—"

"Was the thing that let us out," they both said at once. None of us spoke after that. We were all trying desperately to process. It wasn't working.

"So…" I tried, feeling dizzy. "You mean to say that for virtually _five years_, you two—"

Something in Peter's pocket jangled. I jerked. Peter's hand twitched to his pocket and he pulled out a cell phone, giving a totally startled look to Sylar. Peter stared at the buttons for a second, then pushed one and put the phone to his ear.

"Parkman?"

Hiro got to his feet. Peter's expression intensified.

"Okay," Peter said slowly, his tone completely different. "Okay, thanks for the heads up."

He hung up, and then darted into the next room.

"What?" Sylar demanded.

"Parkman says to turn on the TV," Peter called. "Something we need to see—something about the carnival."

Sylar hurried after him. Feeling my dad's hand still on my shoulder, I got up and trailed after. Emma, Hiro and Ando did the same. Peter found the remote and his TV screen flicked to life. He flipped through the channels to a news station. I frowned at the woman's face that appeared. Had I seen her before…?

"—breaking story. We have just received information that, before this, was top-secret, but has now been released due to the bizarre events that took place in Central Park tonight."

And then the screen changed.

And it showed my face.

"This woman," the reporter's voice went on. "Is a member of a previously-secret race of super-humans—she fell from the top of this Ferris wheel and then stood up, unscathed. Aaron Flynt, a top FBI agent, was able to comment just half an hour after the incident."

The cameras showed my dizzying fall. I made a face when I thudded to the ground. The view then switched to show a clean-cut man in a suit—a middle-aged man with blonde hair, and a lean build. He spoke with his hands in the pockets of his long black coat, his head lowered to the microphones.

"This new information is infinitely valuable," he said, his voice strong and clean. "Now, we finally have the link we've been searching for for years: the truth about the serial killer who murdered more than twenty people without touching them, and removed their brains without weapons. His name is Sylar, and apparently, he is also a super human."

I sensed Sylar stiffen. I smiled tightly.

But my smile did not last long.

"This Ferris Wheel stuntwoman possesses his same arrogance," the man said. "And judging from the tapes, it is easy to see why."

The screen flashed again—and all my blood turned to ice.

There we all stood at the carnival grounds: Dad, Hiro, and Ando, facing Peter and Sylar and Emma, as if we were having a powwow. It zoomed in on all our faces! The woman's voice continued.

"Reporters on the scene tonight were able to capture this footage—it is clear that Sylar is not working alone. According to several witnesses, each one of this group demonstrated super-human powers tonight, such as earth-moving, flying, electrocution, healing and teleportation. It is clear now that Sylar did not perform all the murders himself—rather, he has a several super-humans working for him—"

"_What_?" Peter yelped.

"—a man hunt is being conducted as we speak," the woman finished. "And a well-equipped team plans to bring them in as soon as possible. But if any of our viewers see anyone matching the description of one of Sylar or one of his gang members, _do not approach him_. Instead, please call this number…"

"Crap," Peter raked both hands through his hair. "Crap, crap, _crap_."

"Peter, we have to get out of here," Sylar said urgently. "Those reporters followed us—if not with their feet, with their cameras. They know where we…"

He trailed off. Slowly, he lifted his hand.

"What?" Dad asked, voice low. Sylar closed his eyes.

Then they flew open.

"They're coming."

"Where are they?" Hiro demanded.

"Just outside the building," Sylar said. "I hear them getting flame-throwers ready. They're talking about them."

"Flame-throwers?" Ando gasped. Sylar's jaw set.

"Apparently they have my file. Probably Claire's as well. I would guess that they know that if they burn us to charcoal, we can't heal from that."

My dad swore.

"See, this is _exactly _what I knew would happen!"

"That's helpful, Noah!" Peter snapped.

"What do we do?" I pressed.

"Turn Sylar in," Dad said. "Give him up to them and they'll leave."

"Over my dead body," Peter replied.

"Hold hands," Hiro cut in. "I will take us all to a safe place."

Emma's eyes were wild.

"Peter—"

"It's okay," he said, sliding his hand down and gripping hers tightly. "It'll be okay. I promise."

"I can't go," Dad said. I whirled on him. He just looked at me steadily.

"What are you talking about?" I snarled. "You have to come with us—don't be stupid."

"There is no way I am letting this happen," he grabbed my shoulders. "You get out of here—hide. I'll talk to them. I'll get you out of this. I will _not _let anyone think that you have _anything _to do with _him_." He pointed at Sylar. Then he leveled a gaze at Peter. "You need to turn him in."

"Like I said," Peter answered, his voice like nails. "Over my dead body."

"Peter—" Sylar tried.

"Shut up," Peter answered.

Footsteps sounded on the steps just outside the door.

"Quick! Hold hands!" Hiro said. Dad backed away from us.

"Dad, no!" I shouted.

"Claire, you go with Hiro," he commanded. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Emma link hands with Hiro, and Hiro with Ando. Peter grasped Sylar's hand.

"Dad—" I said, strangled.

"Hiro, go," Dad ordered.

A hand grabbed mine. A strong, soft one. Fingers laced through mine.

I realized the hand that held me was Sylar's.

But the next instant, the whole world flashed, and we disappeared.

TO BE CONTINUED


	4. Chapter 4

_Sorry for the delay—life has been crazy! But yay for the awesome reviews! You have no idea how much they inspire and encourage me! I LOVE THEM! Please keep them coming, and enjoy!_

_  
VVVVVVVVVVV_

CHAPTER FOUR

The first thing I registered was the cold. It bit me, straight through my coat. The next was the scent of pine, and water—but not salt water. My eyes snapped open. We stood on old paving stones in front of a tall, spiky iron gate. The white moonlight illuminated the broad yard beyond it, and the dirt path that led up to a tall Victorian mansion. The mansion bore a looming circular tower with a balcony, dozens of windows, and a wrap-around porch. The house looked still and black, like a creature that waited in a forest with bared teeth.

Awareness came back to my whole body, and I realized my fingers were intertwined with Sylar's.

I yanked my hand out of his so hard it almost hurt. He jerked around to see me, then his expression closed and he turned to face the house again. We all stood a moment—me, Sylar, Peter, Emma, Hiro and Ando—in front of the gate as a thin breeze fluttered our hair and rattled the latch.

"Um, Hiro…" Peter panted. "Where are we?"

"Duluth, Minnesota," Hiro said proudly, smiling up at the foreboding house. His smile faded as he recalled. "This house used to be a bed and breakfast, but then the owner's wife had an affair and left him, and he shot himself in the attic and fell into the garden. Their son is convinced it is haunted, so he locked it and said no one can ever go inside." Hiro grinned again. "I saw it on the news when I was in the hospital."

"And…we're supposed to stay _here?" _I looked at him out of the corner of my eye.

"It's exactly what we need," Peter declared. Sylar nodded, running his eyes up the tower.

"I agree. If they think it's haunted…" He waved a hand, the lock clicked. He beckoned toward himself with his fingers, and the gate creaked open. "Why don't _we _haunt it for a while?"

A breath of cold air hit me, and I wrapped my arms around myself.

"Peter…" I said through my teeth. But Sylar strode right through the gate and up the path, as if he was walking up to his own home. I rolled my eyes. I was _surprised _that Sylar wasn't spooked by a creepy, haunted house?

But Peter walked right next to him. He didn't even look back at me. Their footsteps matched, and they gazed, like twins, up at the high tower. Emma followed on Peter's heels. Hiro and Ando hesitated a moment, then trailed after. My feet stalled as the gate groaned in the wind. I stared at what I saw:

Hiro, Ando, Emma, Peter and _Sylar_ walking confidently up to an abandoned mansion in Duluth, Minnesota—where a man had shot himself—because the Feds somehow got the idea that we were all serial killers…

I had officially stepped straight into the Twilight Zone.

The wind picked up and whipped through my hair. I glanced behind me. Everything was dark, and the forest behind me gaped. The gate screeched again. I turned around to see it threatening to shut.

I clenched my teeth, growled in my throat, stepped forward and caught the gate with my hand. My fingers closed around cold metal. I stepped through, let go of the gate, and followed the path.

The gate clanged shut behind me. I spun and faced it. It clicked.

It was the lock.

"You coming, Claire?"

That was Peter's voice. I slowly turned back around. They all stood on the porch, gazing at me. Waiting. My jaw did not unclench. Sylar caught my glance briefly, then turned and regarded the front door.

"Open Sesame," he said. The door swung open like a slack jaw. He plunged into the dark beyond and disappeared. Peter followed immediately. Hiro jumped in after him, and Ando crept behind. Emma peered inside, then turned to me.

"Claire?" she said, and her voice quivered a bit. My resolve broke, I sighed and trotted up to the porch.

"C'mon," I muttered, taking hold of her bandaged hand. "Who's afraid of the boogeyman, anyway?"

Of course, I knew full well that the boogeyman was already _in _there, right next to Peter—but I wasn't going to tell _Emma _that. Not right now, anyway.

We stepped through the door, and were instantly swallowed by blackness. We halted. Emma's hand squeezed mine. Something off to my right clicked, then clicked repeatedly.

"Crap," Peter said. "No electricity."

Something thudded at knee level and Ando muttered something in Japanese. Hiro replied in the same language. Then Ando said something in an "of course!" tone, and shuffled toward where Peter's voice had come from.

"What?" Peter asked.

"Ando can turn on the lights!" Hiro said.

"That would be a good idea," Sylar growled. "If you wanted to broadcast to the whole coast of Lake Superior that someone was in here."

I opened my mouth to retort, but then a match snapped and hissed, and Sylar's carven face was illuminated in flickering light. The corner where he stood lit up. Then he turned, pulled the glass chimney off of a kerosene lamp on the mantle, and lit the wick. When he put the chimney back on, the lamp gave off a surprising amount of light, and I was able to glance around.

Sheets were draped over all the furniture, but I could see two chairs and a couch circling the dark fireplace. Sylar stood in a corner between the fireplace and an antique bookcase. Off to my right, there were two windows—one front window and one west window, and long curtains covered them. Two arm chairs and a coffee table stood by the front window. There was a window seat in the west window. A little off to the side of that stood a covered baby grand piano, and beyond that, I could see a staircase heading upward.

Ando hovered next to the coffee table—I guess that was what he had barked his shins against. Hiro waited just behind him, assessing the room just as I was. Peter was on the other side of the mantle from Sylar, his hand on the light switch, which undoubtedly would have lit up the small chandelier in the high ceiling if the electricity hadn't been shut off. I swallowed. I was not superstitious. But I was having a hard time, in this light, _not _believing that this place was haunted. Especially with Sylar standing like Dracula next to the lamp, arms crossed.

"Well," Peter sighed, glancing around. "This will do for tonight, anyway." He ran his hand through his hair. "I didn't have time to think about it before, but…" He glanced at Sylar and chuckled. "I am _tired_."

Sylar raised his eyebrows, uttered a deep sigh, then nodded.

"Yeah," he muttered. "Very."

"So we're going to stay _here_?" I said, still trying to process this. "All of us, in some stranger's house? There's no electricity, probably no running water—"

"We are hiding from the government," Hiro said. "We cannot be too picky."

I shut my jaw so tight my teeth ground together. I was supposed to sleep under the same roof as Sylar? With nobody knowing where we were, not even my dad?

I cast a look at the murderer, who was scanning the titles in the bookshelf, and I realized that if he decided to suddenly go postal, there wasn't much we could do about it. Nobody would ever know what had happened.

"Gabriel," Peter called. Sylar turned around. Peter beckoned to him.

"Help me get the sheets off of this furniture."

"I thought you said we were only staying tonight," Emma said, finally letting go of my hand and approaching Peter. Peter shrugged.

"We might as well be comfortable. We can put the sheets back when we leave."

Sylar began whipping the sheets off the chairs and couch around the fireplace. Peter and Emma started on the other furniture. Reluctantly, Ando joined them. Sylar made some crack about a certain armchair near a window, and Peter shot back an equally clever and equally mystifying remark. Hiro just stood there, arms folded, near the front door. I sidled up next to him.

"Are you seeing _any _of this, Hiro?" I muttered. "Or am I the only one who hasn't lost their mind?"

"I am watching. Very closely," he answered. "And I see the look on his face again."

I frowned.

"What look?"

"The look he had when he fixed Charlie. Amazed—but sad. As if he wanted to do that again, but didn't know how." Hiro smiled a little. "But now when he has that face…he looks at Peter. Or you. As if he thinks you have the answer." He nodded once. "There is a hero inside him somewhere. Or at least a man with a heart." He glanced at me. "Maybe Peter sees it, too."

"It wouldn't be the first time Peter wasn't seeing straight," I said under my breath, but Hiro was no longer listening. And I had no time to get his attention again—Peter looked up at me as he took Emma's hand.

"Hey, Claire? You and Emma wanna go upstairs and find a place to settle for the night?"

I glared at him, but he didn't notice. He was busy giving a reassuring smile to Emma. He led her over to me and nodded toward the stairs. After giving him a lingering look, Emma started that direction. Peter put a hand on my shoulder.

"Look after her, okay?" he asked. "I'm not sure how many of the details she has picked up, but I _want _her to understand." He gave me a pointed look. "You'll explain, won't you?"

I narrowed my eyes.

"I would," I said. "If I knew what the heck was going on myself."

He patted my shoulder, then gave me a push toward the stairs, where Emma was waiting. I came up to her side, and together we started up the stairs. Sylar watched us go.

We ascended the switchbacks of the staircase into the next storey of the house. It was only then that I realized we had brought no light with us. I kept one hand on the railing, and the other on Emma's elbow. I wouldn't have, except Peter had said to look out for her, since she was obviously new to this whole freak lifestyle.

We arrived on a landing, and moonlight streamed in through a window. Just below the window stood a little table with a candle in a stand. It had just been used for decoration—never lit before. I pounced on it.

"Are there matches?" Emma asked from behind me. I dug in the drawers of the table. In the very last one, I found a teeny box of penny matches.

"Yes!" I exulted, striking one and lighting the candle. I let out a breath and glanced down the dark hall, now only partly illumined by the small flame I held. Together, Emma and I crept down that hall, our feet creaking on the old floorboards between the rugs. The first door we came to would not open. I wondered if it was the entrance to the upper stories—maybe the tower where the man had shot himself. I shivered as I let go of the handle. Emma went on ahead, tried another doorknob, and the door opened. She turned and beckoned to me.

"Here!" she said. "I think this one has two beds."

I followed her and leaned inside. She was right. Two frilly twin beds stood inside, a nightstand in between them, and windows over each headboard. I slowly entered, my eyes sweeping the room. I found another kerosene lamp standing atop a dresser, removed the chimney and lit it. The room lit up some more, and I gave a half smile.

It was a cute room, all done in white and soft, sunshine yellow, with patterns of flowers on the quilts, and lace curtains. The floor was wood, but there was a rug between the beds. Apparently, all the furnishings in the house were antiques. I shook my head.

"I feel like I've been thrown back to 'Little House on the Prairie.'"

"Okay, Claire," Emma said, moving to the far bed, sitting on top of it and crossing her legs Indian style. "Come sit down."

I set the candle down on the nightstand, and sat on the bed that was apparently mine, now. Emma looked at me seriously, her hazel eyes bright in the candlelight.

"Now," she began. "I want you to look right at me, talk very slowly…and tell me exactly how we got here."

VVV

Peter traipsed through the house that still felt empty, even though six people now occupied it. He left Hiro and Andow downstairs, for those two were standing by the fireplace holding a rapid-fire conversation in Japanese. Peter listened to the vast space above him as he climbed the stairs—Gabriel had vanished a few minutes ago. Peter needed to find him. They had to talk.

Peter arrived on the first landing and paused. He heard female voices coming from one of the rooms down the hall, and he saw a faint light from beneath a door. His shoulders relaxed a bit. That was Emma and Claire. Good.

A cool draft hit him, and he caught sight of another door to the left that hung partially open. The way beyond was black. Peter halfway smiled. Gabriel couldn't have been clearer if he had put his signature on it. Peter opened the door and stepped through.

Walking up stairs in the pitch dark didn't bother him anymore, but he had to take it slow—this staircase spiraled. His hand found a smooth, wooden railing, and it guided him upward. Finally, he reached another landing, hesitated a moment, then felt a rug beneath his feet. Hands stretched out in front of him, he shuffled forward. His hands met a door. He opened it.

He squinted against the bright, cold moonlight, and peered into the circular room. Inside stood a single bed, a large wardrobe, a dresser, a rug, and a tall, walk-out window that led to the balcony. That window was open. And Gabriel stood outside, leaning on the railing of the balcony.

"Hello, Peter," Gabriel said quietly, without turning.

"Hey," Peter answered, and stepped in. He crossed the floor and stepped onto the balcony too. The night air cut through his clothes, but he ignored it. He rested his left elbow on the rail and faced Gabriel. Gabriel's eyes were distant, as he gazed out over the darkness, and the faraway pinpoints of light on the coast. His hands were clasped in front of him, both elbows bearing the weight of his upper body. An out of place strand of hair brushed his forehead.

"Why did you come up here?" Peter questioned. "You didn't waste any time—just came right up here to where the guy shot himself."

Gabriel didn't answer. Peter shook his head.

"I swear, sometimes I think you go _hunting _for morbid stuff."

"Better that than to be surprised by it," Gabriel murmured. "I don't know if I told you—maybe I did—but I can touch something and know everything that happened to it and around it. I can hear the whole conversation that man had with himself…I can feel the walls echoing after the gunshot…" He straightened and ran his hands across the railing. Peter stepped closer to him.

"See, that's _exactly _what I'm talking about. You need to quit that."

Gabriel lowered his head.

"How did you know?"

Peter stopped, realizing they had changed subjects.

"Know what?"

Gabriel met his eyes. Peter had never seen him look so sad.

"How did you know that it was Claire?"

Peter frowned. Gabriel faced him, his gaze intensifying.

"I never told you. I never said her name in that context. How did you—"

"You gave me about a million clues over the course of five years," Peter stated. "I'm not a total block-head." He shrugged. "I figured it out."

Gabriel's brow furrowed, and he studied Peter's face.

"And you weren't angry with me."

Peter took a breath, then shook his head.

"No."

"Why?"

Peter glanced out at the moonlit yard. That was Gabriel's favorite question.

"I'm not sure. Really, I'm not. But it could have manifested some other way—like in the Wall."

Gabriel's eyes flashed.

"One of the reasons you were afraid to let me out."

Peter nodded slowly.

"Maybe."

Gabriel looked at him sideways.

"But you _did_ let me out."

"Yeah, I did," Peter stated. "Which should make you feel better."

"Feel better? Why?" Gabriel demanded again. "You saw her face, Peter. Do you see the way she looks at me?" Gabriel turned back to the yard, bracing his hands on the rail. "She is never going to see me as anything but a monster."

"Hey, woah," Peter grabbed his shoulder. "How long have you guys been around each other now? A couple hours? And you're already giving up?"

"I can't stand the way she looks at me," Gabriel breathed. Peter shook him.

"Deal with it! She's just gonna look at you like that for a while, okay? But I know Claire. She's a good girl, and she can be a sweetheart." Peter gripped his shoulder harder. "You've just got to keep beating against that wall, you know? It'll break down eventually."

"Peter, I don't know how!" Gabriel cried, knocking Peter's hand loose and gesturing helplessly. "I don't even know where to start, what to say—nothing! She condemns every move I make and when I look at her, she…" He stopped, and sucked in a breath, swallowed and shook his head. "I can't stand it."

"Listen, you know more than you think," Peter insisted. "How many books did you read while we were in there?"

Gabriel frowned.

"I don't know. Hundreds."

"Then you'll remember that in the old days, guys used poetry and music and stuff when they couldn't figure out exactly what to say. They quoted Shakespeare or some other poet, or serenaded the girl they liked."

Gabriel arched an eyebrow.

"You want me to—"

"I'm just saying think about it, okay?" Peter interrupted. "You're creative." He slapped his arm. "Now come down out of this creepy attic. Us guys can camp out in the living room."

VVVVVVVVVV

I lay underneath the covers of my new bed, trying to get comfortable. I hated sleeping in jeans, but I had no other option. The pillow was soft and deep, though, and the comforter and quilt were warm. The box springs squeaked as I turned my back to Emma and stared at the little, indistinct pictures on the wall.

I let out a long, shaky breath. Tears ran down my nose and onto my pillow. I felt infinitely tired, but fear and instability coursed through my veins, keeping my heart-rate up and making me twitch at any little sound. I hugged my arms to my chest, squeezed my eyes shut and fought to keep my sobs under control.

But then I remembered that my new roommate couldn't hear anything. I could tell that she was asleep, by her breathing. I wouldn't disturb her. At that realization, I couldn't hold it back anymore.

A gasping cry escaped me, and I wept hard, choking and rasping, my tears scalding my face and sending an ache through my temples.

He was here. In this house. Walking these halls. Perhaps standing outside my door.

I couldn't bear it.

And for most of the night, I couldn't stop crying.

VVV

_And then she dreamed she was walking by a brook bordered with trees,_

_And lamenting her sad fate,_

_When a young prince, handsomer than anyone she had ever seen,_

_And with a voice that went straight to her heart,_

_Came and said to her:_

"_Ah, Beauty, you are not so unfortunate as you suppose._

_Here you will be rewarded for all you have suffered elsewhere._

_Your every wish shall be gratified._

_Only try to find me out, no matter how I may be disguised,_

_For I love you dearly,_

_And in making me happy you will find your own happiness._

_Be as true-hearted as you are beautiful, and we shall have nothing left to wish for."_

"_What can I do, Prince, to make you happy?" said Beauty._

"_Only be grateful," he answered. "and do not trust too much to your eyes._

_Above all, do not desert me until you have saved me_

_from my cruel misery."_

TO BE CONTINUED


	5. Chapter 5

_Thank you for all your supportive reviews! I love them! Sorry for the little chapter, but I felt that I have neglected you long enough! Oh, and I wanted to let you know that I'm keeping my focus narrow, to an intimate cast, as in Purgatory—I hope you continue to enjoy the story. :D Keep reviewing!_

_VVVVVVV_

CHAPTER FIVE

I jerked awake, threw the covers off myself and sat up. I blinked rapidly, trying to focus. Morning light streamed in through the lace curtains, and lit up the whole room in warm, bright light. My mind reeled for a moment as I tried to remember where I was.

My eyes fell on the other bed, which was empty, and the covers were mussed.

Emma.

The mansion in Duluth.

Sylar.

My stomach clenched and I almost got sick. But then I heard voices from downstairs. I hesitated a second, listening, until I recognized Peter's voice. Getting up carefully, I shuffled in my socks to the half-open door. I stepped out.

Light from several windows now filled the hallway, and I heard birds singing outside. I bit my lip, a little chagrined. This place wasn't really that scary in the daylight.

The voices below escalated, and I frowned, then ran a hand through my hair. I felt like a wreck. Grunge-girl.

As quietly as I could, I tiptoed down the stairs, one hand on the rail. I was halfway down when I understood the first sentence.

"We can't stay here for very long," Ando said. "Even if the people in town do think this place is haunted, they aren't stupid—they will see people coming and going."

"Then we can't just go stomping in and out whenever we want," Peter answered. "Hiro will have to help us out."

"You have to pay attention when you're hiding," Sylar stated. "But if you're careful, you can stay someplace for an indefinite amount of time, especially when it's this secluded."

"We don't want to stay indefinitely," Hiro countered.

"I'm just saying it's possible," Sylar replied. "In case anyone is in a panic, which is what it sounds like right now."

"We need to find out what happened to Noah Bennet," Hiro stated. "And then find a way to clear our names."

"Good luck with that, now," Ando huffed. "Since all of us escaped with _him_."

"Hey, I wasn't the one who made the stupid assumption," Sylar shot back. "What do you expect from the media?"

I stepped down three more steps, and then the board beneath my foot squeaked. I stopped, grimacing. Everybody turned and looked at me. I swept my eyes over them—Emma's hair was pulled back, but her clothes were rumpled, Ando, Hiro and Peter's hair was sticking up in odd places, and Sylar, arms crossed over a wrinkled shirt, had dark circles under his eyes. Okay, so everybody looked like a wreck. I ran my fingers through my hair again anyway.

I felt Sylar's eyes on me as I finished coming down the steps, but I watched my feet, and came up to stand close beside Emma. Peter sighed.

"Okay, whatever happens later," he began. "We have to take care of the necessaries right now. We need food. Hiro and me can go into town and buy some."

"I am going with Hiro," Ando insisted.

"I am coming, too," Emma said. Peter blinked.

"Um—"

"We need more than just food," Emma said. "We need toiletries, toothbrushes, and Claire and I need things like shampoo and makeup, a brush or two," She gave a little smile to Peter. "I don't trust you to get the right things."

"You're right," Peter admitted. My eyes widened as I suddenly realized that everyone was planning to leave except Sylar and me.

"Wait—can't I go too?" I said quickly. Hiro raised his eyebrows.

"How? You walked up to the cameras and told them your name. Your face was all over the news. Ours were not as clear, and I doubt they have all our names yet."

I winced, but he was right. Peter gestured to Sylar.

"Gabriel, you could come if you—"

"No."

"What?" Emma asked. Sylar looked down.

"Gabriel can shape-shift," Peter explained. "He can turn into—"

"I'm not doing that, Peter," Sylar said, staring at the rug. "Never again. I won't."

"Okay, okay," Peter relented. "That's fine. You can stay here. We shouldn't be long, anyway."

My mouth fell open, but I could think of nothing to say—my mind had frozen. Ando looked alarmed, his eyes darting back and forth between Sylar and me, but nobody else seemed to notice. Before either Ando or I could say a word, Peter drew himself up and glanced at Hiro.

"Hiro, do you know a spot where you could drop the four of us that's closer to the main part of town?"

Hiro shrugged.

"I think so. I can try."

"Okay, let's go," Peter said, taking Emma's hand. "I'm hungry."

Ando opened his mouth and pointed at me, but Hiro grabbed his hand and Peter's, and suddenly they were gone.

For just an instant, Sylar and I stood there, eyes locked. Then I spun around and raced back up the stairs, my heart hammering so hard I thought it would break out of my chest. I leaped into my room and slammed the door, waiting to hear the footsteps that would betray his following.

I heard nothing.

Frowning, I pressed my ear to the door. Far below, I heard soft, slow footsteps cross the living room.

And then silence.

Shivering, I sank to the floor, pressing my full weight against the door, determined not to come out until Peter returned.

VVV

I sat back against my door, listening to the birds outside, staring at the ceiling. The worry for my dad turned in my gut like a knife, but I had no way to get a hold of him. I had no cell phone, and there was still no electricity in the house, so even if there was a landline, it wouldn't work. I sighed, and stood up to get my jacket—I felt chilled.

_Plunk. _

_Plunk, plunk_.

I stopped, my hand on my jacket where it hung on the bedpost. I turned a little toward the door, listening. The plunking continued from below, in the living room—soft, careful musical notes. And then came a sound like a bass violin being strummed. Then deep, reverberating humming. I crept to the door, twisted the knob and eased it open. The sounds became more defined, and once in a while, they were interrupted by a faint squeaking, like a screw being tightened. Still in my socks, I strayed out there again, too curious to remain in my room.

Halfway down the stairs, I stopped, rolled my eyes and went all the way back up again. What was I doing? Going downstairs to see what Sylar was up to? Yeah, that was a brilliant idea…

I took hold of my bedroom door. A descending scale resounded through the living room, perfectly clear—

And then the last note struck and it was decidedly out of tune.

The piano.

"Crap," a low voice muttered. "Will you just cooperate, you stupid G? Have some patience with me, here…"

I spun back around. He was _tuning _the _piano? _

Careful to put my feet down on the outside edges of the stairs, I stole back down the steps to the bend in the staircase, knelt down and leaned around the banister just enough to see the cherry-wood piano, which was bathed in a pool of gold morning light.

The sheet that had covered it last night now lay on the wood floor. Sylar, black sleeves rolled up to his elbows, strands of hair hanging in his eyes, bent over the side of the piano, carefully running up and down several keys with the fingertips of his left hand. Then he straightened a little, his arms still bent, and moved further back to the strings. The lid was propped all the way up, exposing the innards. Frowning, Sylar bent over the long, taut cords. He tilted his head, which sent sunlight cascading around him, and waved his left hand minutely.

That little squeaking sound issued again. Then his eyes sharpened, and he pointed a finger at the keyboard. My eyes widened as an invisible finger pressed a key down.

_Plunk_.

The high G sounded again. But it sounded a little _too_ high this time. Sylar narrowed his eyes, and slowly closed his left hand into a fist, then opened his hand again. The squeak came again. He pointed.

_Plunk._

He grinned. My mouth fell open as a flash of complete unfamiliarity swept through me—it was a smile of pure pleasure, bearing neither wickedness nor sadness.

"There we go, baby," Sylar purred. "Okay, how about the lower register?" Like he was strumming a harp, he fluttered his fingers in the air and the piano performed a perfect run, as if a ghost had dragged his hand down the keys. However, the sound that issued was like a broken music box. Sylar braced his hands on the side of the piano and his head lolled down.

"Oh, for crying out loud," he muttered. He beckoned to the piano bench and it swung around to where he stood, its feet scraping on the wood. Without looking at it, he sat down, rested his elbows on the side of the piano and stared down inside. I held my breath. He stared for a full minute. Then, closing his eyes, he lifted his right hand forefinger.

All of the lower chords vibrated, humming through the air. He closed his fingers again. Something squeaked once more.

I had no idea how long I sat there, watching him. The movements of his hands were delicate yet deliberate, like a surgeon, and yet he never touched the piano. The instrument fought him every step of the way, issuing ugly chords, strange pinging, and uneasy twangs. And yet he worked through them, just as I might work a tangle out of my hair. And one by one, each string yielded to him—relaxed, almost—and melted into easy harmony with the others.

He stopped. He stood up straight. Sparks lit behind his eyes, and he moved around to stand in front of the keyboard. For a moment, he just stood there, then slowly raised both hands in the air. The piano shivered. My breath caught.

The notes started deep, then rumbled up to the higher ones, up and down, up and down. And then, with movements like a conductor, he began playing rapid chords without touching the keys; some dissonant, others in perfect harmony. Music unlike any I had ever heard rang from that instrument—violent and suddenly tender, hurried then abruptly lingering. It vibrated through the floors and walls, all the way up the steps where I crouched. I covered my mouth with my hand. The chaos of the impromptu concerto tightened, organized, and began making sense in a way that, if I didn't know better, I would have called beautiful.

He lowered his hands to his waist, and the notes grew fast and soft, like distant thunder, and as he slowly raised his arms to a powerful pose, they crecendoed into a show-stopping final chord that shook the piano, and the whole house.

Silence fell. I started breathing again.

"Wow."

Sylar spun toward the front door, eyes flashing. Then he smiled again.

"Hi."

I then realized that had been Emma's voice. She appeared in my line of sight carrying two grocery bags, and hurried to the piano. She almost dropped the bags as she set them down, then stared at the piano, then at Sylar, her gaze intense and brilliant.

"That was incredible," she cried. "How did you do that?"

Sylar shrugged.

"One of my powers is to know how things work, and how to fix them. I tuned the piano, and that taught me all about it, so I could play it."

Peter came up behind her, also bearing a bag. He was trying to hide a smile.

"Can you do it again?" Emma asked eagerly. Sylar smirked at Peter, then lifted a finger.

_Plink plink plink plink plink plink plink_. The piano's keys depressed robotically, in the tune of "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star." Emma laughed and slapped his arm with the back of her hand. He chuckled and shied away.

"That is _not _what I meant," she said.

"I am hungry," Hiro announced, walking past all of them across the living room to the kitchen, juggling three bags. I was surprised he could see where he was going. Ando followed on his heels, shooting a look back over his shoulder at Sylar. And then Emma turned and glanced right at me.

"Claire? Do you want to have breakfast first or take a shower? I have shampoo."

I gulped as Peter and Sylar automatically looked up at me, too. Sylar's weight shifted, the skin around his eyes tightened and he cast his eyes down.

"Um…" I croaked, slowly rising to my feet. "I'll…take a shower."

"Okay," Emma said, snatching up one of the bags and coming to me. She held the bag out and smiled. "Here—you should find whatever you need. I'll go start the breakfast before Hiro burns down the kitchen." She gave me a reassuring look as I limply took the bag, and then she turned and went back downstairs. Peter winked at her, then smiled up at me and followed Emma to the kitchen. Only Sylar stood there a moment, gazing into my eyes, before he ducked his head and trailed after Peter.

I glanced into the plastic bag. Yep, I had everything I needed to clean myself up. Now I just had to get up the gumption to take a shower in the same house as Sylar. I gritted my teeth.

"Don't be such a baby," I berated myself. But when I got back upstairs to the little shower room, I dragged a chair in there, locked the door, and propped the chair against the inside—even though I knew it would do no good if he was really determined.

TO BE CONTINUED


	6. Chapter 6

_Whew! Well, now that the play I was in is done, I will have more time to update! Sorry for the delay, but I hope you continue to enjoy, and review!_

_VVVVVVVV_

CHAPTER SIX

"_And the world shall deal with you as it does by me, till one or both of us_

_shall quit it for a better."_

_-Nicholas Nickleby_

Peter followed Emma into the kitchen, hefting his groceries, unable to keep himself from smiling at the back of her head. He stepped into the fairly large, tile-floored white kitchen and glanced around. There was a lot of counter space all around, a large stove, fridge and freezer, tall cupboards, and an island counter for cutting boards. A large window above the sink looked out over the back garden. Off to the right, there was a table and chairs in a breakfast nook.

Ando and Hiro stood on the other side of the island. The bags rustled as Hiro mechanically unpacked them. Ando just stood there—he spoke before Peter had a chance to set his groceries down.

"I still cannot believe we left Sylar here with Claire, alone," he protested.

"I didn't hurt her," Gabriel's quiet voice came from behind Peter. Peter glanced back at him. He frowned to see Gabriel halt at the threshold, head low.

"He didn't hurt her _this _time," Ando replied, glaring at him.

"He's not gonna hurt anybody, okay?" Peter set the bag down on the counter. Emma went to the sink and turned the handle. It squeaked, but nothing came out of the faucet.

"There's no water."

"Gabriel," Peter turned to him, and Gabriel finally lifted his dark eyes.

"Hey, could you go outside to the man hole and turn on the water?" Peter asked. "Claire's gonna want some for her shower, and it'll be hard to cook anything without it. And be careful out there," Peter warned. "Don't let anybody see you."

"Yeah," Gabriel nodded quickly, drawing himself up. "Okay." And he turned and left, crossing the living room to the front door. As soon as the door opened and closed, Ando slammed his hand down on the island table. Hiro snapped at him in Japanese, but Ando didn't listen.

"I will not stand this. Peter, this cannot go on," Ando's eyes blazed. "There is a murderer in this house—one who has killed many innocent people—and we are supposed to act as if he has done nothing?"

"Chill out, Ando," Peter advised, reaching into the bag and pulling out a dozen eggs and a loaf of bread. Ando looked baffled.

"Chill…How can I do that? Peter, this does not make sense! Sylar—"

"Peter spent five years inside Sylar's brain," Hiro said. "He must know him better than anyone." Hiro then looked at Peter in a testing way and narrowed his eyes—Peter's hackles raised.

"Then you would know _exactly _what he has done," Ando pressed on. "He is a madman, and a killer, and we _cannot—_"

"_Listen_," Peter thundered, facing them and looking Emma, Ando and Hiro in turns, straight in the eye. "Hiro is right. I spent virtually five years inside Gabriel's head with him, trapped. I know him better than anyone else in the world does. I know about his dreams and his nightmares, about what drives him crazy and what he thinks is funny. I know what scares him and I know what inspires him. I know everything he's done and everyone he's killed. I also know the _hell _he went through in there." Peter took a shaky breath. "I went through it with him. And I saw how it punished him, how it changed him—made him into a good man. But I also know he is terrified of being alone, of being betrayed. And if it costs me my _life_, I won't do that to him." Peter shook his head. "I just won't." He looked to Emma, desperately hoping she would understand. "So if you want to get rid of him…you should know that I'm going with him." He nodded once. "He's my friend." His voice quieted. "And I need you to trust me."

Emma gazed back at Peter, intently listening. And clarity dawned behind her eyes, she smiled a little, and nodded so only he could see. Ando glanced down. Hiro grinned.

Footsteps sounded. Peter turned to see Gabriel re-enter the kitchen. Gabriel jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

"I turned on the water and heard it start going, so that should do it." He passed in front of Peter and headed toward the sink. Emma did the same, and she took hold of the hot spicket, and Gabriel grabbed the cold, and they twisted them at the same time. The faucet gurgled, spat, and spewed out water that looked rusty at first, then flowed clear and bubbly.

"It works," Emma grinned at Gabriel. "Thank you!"

And she gave Gabriel a brief, tight hug.

Gabriel's eyes flashed and his mouth fell open—his arms started up, but Emma had let go of him and turned back to the sink before he could respond. Gabriel swallowed hard, and then smiled weakly when she met his eyes again. Peter's eyebrows went up—until Emma cast him a secret look, and winked. Peter then met Gabriel's eyes, shook his head and grinned. And Gabriel smiled back.

VVVVVVVVVV

I took the world's fastest shower. And while shampoo was running into my eyes because I was scrubbing my long hair so hard, I determined that, before breakfast, Peter and I were going to have _words_. I wasn't putting up with this insanity any longer.

I rinsed, got out, dried and dressed, and finished getting ready. I sat on a stool in front of a round mirror and brushed my hair over and over, trying to figure out how to knock the sense back into my uncle.

However, my hair had dried before I had formulated exactly what I was going to say to get Peter's attention when I got down to that kitchen. I rehearsed it a couple times to the mirror, firmly, determined that _nothing _would distract me from saying what I needed to.

I stood up. I set the brush down. I turned and left the bathroom and started down the stairs.

"Peter, we need to talk," I whispered, running through my speech again. "This morning, you left me here alone with a man who _cut open my head_…" I trailed off. I heard something from the kitchen—a sound that was impossible.

I hurried across the living room floor, quietly, and edged toward the kitchen door. And when I finally saw and heard what was going on inside, my entire speech disappeared from my head.

The scent of frying bacon and eggs flooded the air, and the sound of it on the skillet crackled and bubbled. Hiro and Ando stood at the island table chopping up peppers and onions—very carefully—and Peter, Emma and Sylar…

Peter and Sylar stood side by side in front of the stove, Sylar babysitting the eggs, Peter hovering over the bacon. Apparently, Ando had gotten the electricity working. Everyone's sides or back faced me, and no one saw me. Emma washed a frying pan in the frothing sink. And the impossible sound issued again.

Sylar laughed.

"Pete, you've gotta watch it—I really don't want to eat charcoal."

"Shut up and watch your own food," Peter retorted.

"Look, they're smoking," Sylar pointed.

"They are not, they're—crap!" Peter hissed and tried to turn the heat down. Sylar gagged on another laugh.

"Please move," Emma said, inserting herself between the two of them. "Let me finish, before you ruin everything."

"Ah—you're an angel," Sylar briefly rested a hand on the back of her head and stepped out of her way, giving a wicked smile to Peter.

"Shut up," Peter fumed. Sylar put his hands up.

"I didn't say a word."

Peter snatched a dishtowel and snapped Sylar in the shoulder with it. It cracked like a whip.

"Ow!" Sylar cried, slapping a hand to that spot, eyes wide. Emma whirled around, brandishing a spatula.

"Stop it or you'll catch something on fire."

And then Sylar saw me. He stopped moving, became quiet and solemn, and gazed as if he had seen an unexpected piece of artwork down a shadowed hall. Emma caught sight of me next. She smiled.

"Did the water work?" she asked. I nodded mutely. She gestured to the little white table off to my right in the breakfast nook.

"Go sit down. You can eat first—it's ready."

My stupid feet almost didn't carry me over there. I managed to sit down in one of the cute little chairs and stare at the scene in front of me again. Bottles clanked as Peter dug milk and juice out of a bag. He turned around.

"Gabriel—milk or juice?"

Sylar blinked and turned to him. He had been watching me.

"Um. Milk."

"Hiro?"

"Juice," Hiro smiled.

"Ando?"

"Milk," Ando muttered.

Peter reached over and touched Emma's arm, and asked when she looked at him. She answered that she wanted juice.

"Claire?" Peter called, looking to me. Part of my original speech rattled around in my brain, but all I could croak out was:

"Juice, please."

"See, she's got manners," Peter pointed at me briefly, then got to work on the drinks. "Nobody else said please."

"_Please_," Hiro and Sylar chorused—Hiro pleasantly, Sylar with more sarcasm.

"Watch it," Peter warned Sylar. "I'll get you with that towel again."

"Fool me twice…" Sylar purred.

"Oh, count on it," Peter assured him. "I'll move so fast you'll never know what hit you."

They continued bantering back and forth, like fencing with blunted swords. And a crooked thought hit me—I remembered how Sylar had stood next to Peter, and it had reminded me of Peter and Nathan. Now, however, I didn't get that sense. Sylar's speech was distinctly "Sylar"—potent, somewhat dark—and Peter's was more snarky. It was just as if Peter had always had two brothers instead of one, and Sylar was the one closer to Peter's age. Perhaps the youngest of the three. I slowly shook my head. There was no way Peter was going to listen to what I had to say.

Emma slipped a fried egg onto a plastic plate, along with three pieces of bacon, turned, took a cup of juice from Peter and then came to me, smiling apologetically.

"Peter burned the bacon a little," she said.

"I did _not,_"Peter called.

"You did," Sylar muttered.

"You distracted me."

"So you admit you burned it."

"I'm gonna kill you."

"Can we please talk about something useful?" Ando cut in as he handed a plate of chopped vegetables to Emma for the omelets. "Like what we are going to do about our situation, about Noah Bennet?"

Peter sighed.

"I agree." He scooped up his bacon. "But let's all get sat down first, okay?"

After that, preparation went quickly, and everybody was handed either plain eggs or an omelet, and headed toward the table. Ando and Hiro hesitated, but Peter charged on over to my right side and sat down. Sylar slipped behind me and him, and seated himself silently by Peter. Emma, after sticking two pieces of bread in an old toaster, found a place beside Sylar. Hiro and Ando thus decided it was safe to sit by Emma. The circle around the table was now complete. I stared down at my food, wondering how the heck I was going to even swallow it let alone keep it down—

"You want to—" Peter half-asked Sylar.

"Well…yes, if you think—"

"Okay. Go for it."

—and I felt a hand reach down and take hold of mine. I blinked and glanced up. Peter had closed his fingers around mine, and had also taken hold of Sylar's hand. Sylar reached out a hand to Emma. She looked at it for just an instant, smiled at him, then took it, squeezing his hand gently, then reached for Hiro's. Frowning, Hiro and Ando linked hands, and Ando grasped mine. Peter cleared his throat, then just bowed his head and closed his eyes. I saw Emma do the same. Hiro and Ando almost did. Then Sylar took a deep breath.

"Lord," he murmured, his voice low. Then, he paused for a moment, as if deciding what to say—and when he finally spoke, it was sincere. "Thank you. Amen."

"Amen," Peter echoed. I mumbled the same, automatically, trying to keep my shocked stare to myself.

"Okay," Peter said, taking up his fork and stabbing at his egg. "Hiro, I know you and Ando worked on some sort of something last night—what's up?"

"We have a little plan," Hiro declared. "The best we could come up with in this sticky situation." He took a drink. "Ando and I will return to New York and find out two things." He held up two fingers.

"First," Ando said. "We will find out if Noah Bennet is still alive, and rescue him if he needs it."

The tension in my chest relaxed a hair.

"Yes," Hiro nodded. "Second, we will find out that man from the FBI, what he knows and what he plans to do, when and where."

"Sounds good, except for the whole you and him thing," I finally said. "What are the rest of us supposed to do?"

"Nothing," Hiro stated. "Except hide here."

"But my dad—" I tried, my chest constricting.

"Only Hiro can get out of bad pinches," Ando said. "And he and I are used to working together. We can't have everyone sneaking around the FBI with us. Besides, Claire, they have warrants out for you."

Peter didn't like that any more than I did—I saw his jaw clench.

"I'm not very good at just sitting around," he muttered, cutting his egg up into about a dozen pieces.

"That is the best thing _to _do," Hiro insisted, gesturing pointedly. "The less you do, the less people see you, the easier it will be for everyone to forget you." He shrugged. "Maybe something else will happen—a flood or a scandal or a plane crash—and everyone will think about that instead."

"It's a good thing it was _you _who suggested that, Hiro," I said as I pulled my bacon apart with my fingers. "If it had been somebody else, I'd be worried."

Sylar swallowed. Ando looked at him. Emma frowned, probably because she had not been able to see my mouth. Peter just ignored me.

"I _really_ don't like it," Peter said. "I mean, this whole situation is absolute crap. But…your plan makes sense. We'll do what you say—but just for right now," Peter pointed at Hiro with his fork. "A week, maybe. If you guys leave today, you've got to be back by Friday, regardless. Then we'll talk about what to do from there."

"Okay," Hiro nodded. "And we can go to the store in town here and get phones, and keep in touch that way."

"Okay, cool."

Just then, with a clash, the toaster spat up the slightly-burned toast.

"_Oh _my gosh," Sylar yelped, leaping to his feet and banging his knees on the table, making everything rattle.

"What?" Peter demanded. Sylar squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again, and stared, fixated, at the toaster.

"_What?"_ Peter repeated. Sylar's right hand drifted over and barely touched Emma's shoulder.

"Emma," he said slowly, and she watched his face. He arched an eyebrow.

"What does it look like…I mean, does your ability manifest…"

Her face lit up.

"Did you see something?"

"There was a—a flash of color," he said. "Green, mostly, with some red—"

"Yes!" she cried, laughing. "When the toaster—"

"That's incredible," Sylar breathed. "And I felt something else, too. Something…" He frowned, still staring at the toaster. My breathing slowed to nothing, and I clenched my hands under the table. I couldn't keep my eyes from Sylar. I had seen that look on his face before.

He lifted both hands, and gazed past the toaster.

And then he clapped. Emma gasped.

And the empty milk carton tumbled off the counter and into the trash can.

"What did you do?" She got to her feet, stretching her own hands out, mimicking, brow furrowing.

"He used telekinesis," I said, bewildered at her. "Like when he opened the front gate."

Emma and Sylar were already shaking their heads.

"No," Emma said. "I saw it. And I have done things with my power before—I have moved things. I cut through my wall, and I knocked Doyle over at Samuel's carnival, to stop him from controlling me."

"Sylar took your power?" Hiro asked.

"I wasn't trying," Sylar said.

"I thought you had to—" Ando drew a line across his forehead.

"No, I don't," Sylar said, still looking at the toaster. "Empathy."

"That is very good," Hiro grinned. My head started to buzz.

"Okay, we'll play with Emma's power later," Peter said. "But for right now we have to eat, okay?"

"But Peter, this is fascinating," Sylar protested, running his eyes over the whole kitchen. "Can you imagine what a symphony would be like? Or someone singing?"

"I've never seen someone sing," Emma said.

"You're not gonna see _me_ sing," Peter said, eating a piece of bacon. The buzzing in my head got worse.

"You could try," Emma said, sitting back down. "I want to see."

"Well, maybe for you," Peter smirked at her.

And suddenly my stomach rolled.

"Peter," I gasped. His head whipped around.

"What?"

Part of my vision turned black. I groped for him and his hand found mine. I shut my eyes.

"Claire, your hands are froze." Peter's voice sounded fuzzy.

"Is she okay?" Sylar demanded.

"Peter," I said again. "I _have_ to talk to you."

TO BE CONTINUED


	7. Chapter 7

_As always, I am grateful for your lovely reviews! Keep them up! I have included a particular song in this section—it is Handel's "Silent Worship." You can find it on youtube if you type this in the search window: "Robin Hood 2006-Did You Not Hear My Lady." Have a listen to it—it's lovely, and it'll enhance the read. Enjoy!_

_VVVVVVVVVV_

CHAPTER SEVEN

Peter and I swept out of the kitchen, his arm around my waist. The living room was cooler than the kitchen, and my head and sight cleared.

"I'm fine," I decided, my health improving with every step I took away from that kitchen. "It was just an overload. Really. I'm fine."

"Good," Peter replied, but he didn't let go of me. "Let's go upstairs."

"Why?" I asked, frowning. He sighed.

"If you're gonna say what I think you're gonna say…I don't want Gabriel to hear it."

My stomach twisted again.

"I wish you would stop calling him that," I gritted. "'Gabriel' is the name of an _angel_. _Sylar _is a sick, twisted _freak _who—"

"See, that's exactly what I'm talking about," Peter interrupted. "Keep it to yourself for a sec, okay?"

Together, we climbed up the stairs to the level where Emma and I had slept, and then he turned and guided me up the stairs to a tower.

_The _tower.

"Wait—I don't want to go up where the guy—" I protested.

"It's fine," Peter said. "I went up there last night. No ghosts or blood or clanking chains."

I rolled my eyes, but went with him up the wooden steps to the landing, then into the circular bedroom.

"Here," Peter guided me to the wide bed. "Sit down."

"You know what, Peter? No." I jerked away from him and spun around, my voice rising. "I don't want to sit down. No, no, _no._"

"Okay," he put his hands up. "You don't have to."

I stared at him a moment, then barked out a laugh.

"You know what?" I jabbed a finger at him. "That is the _first _choice I've been allowed to make so far."

"Claire—"

"_No!"_ I clenched my fists, my eyes flashing. "Listen to _me, _for once! You spun off into the deep end and somehow made friends with _Sylar_, the guy who would have _killed _me if not for my ability—and the guy who murdered _my _father and _your _brother, along with dozens of other people, and you two come back from who-knows-where having spent time in his brain or something ridiculous like that, and I'm supposed to _believe _his name change and his good manners and his _praying? _Come _on_, Peter!" My face felt hot, and new fury rushed through me. "You left me here alone this morning with_ him_. Do you have any idea what he could have done to me? _Again?"_

"He wouldn't do anything to you," Peter replied, his voice calm. It drove me nuts.

"How do you know?" I shot back.

"I just do," Peter said simply.

I blinked, then took a step back from him, looking at him sideways.

"What does that mean?"

Peter sighed, stepped forward, took hold of my shoulders, and arrested my eyes with his brown ones.

"Look, Claire…I know it's weird and far-fetched, but our story's true. Sylar went to Parkman because he was convinced that, without his powers, he would be able to be human again. Parkman double-crossed him. He locked him in his own mind instead. I took Parkman's power and went in after Sylar. Now, I know in reality it was only about five hours, but Claire," Peter squeezed my shoulders, then gazed off, as if remembering. He let go of me, sighed, and shook his head. "It felt like years. _Years_. And all the time I was there, I was sure nothing could convince me that he could change from a murderer into a good man. I didn't believe he was stable enough, for one thing," he shrugged. "But all through hundreds of conversations and fistfights and arguments, and trying to get out of there day after day…" he met my eyes again. "Somehow it happened. Call it a miracle. I dunno. All I know is that _Sylar_ died in that empty city. And Gabriel came out." He paused a moment, looking at me. "And I want _you_ to know," He slid a hand up around the back of my head, and leaned close to me. "I would have died in there with him rather than let him within ten miles of you if I didn't trust him completely and totally. Okay?"

I bit my lip.

"Look," Peter said, his voice quiet. "I have absolutely no expectation that you're going to forgive him. Probably not for years, at least. I did my own fair share of freaking out and punching walls and screaming at him. And I even beat him up for you—does that make you feel better?"

I looked up at him.

"You did?"

He nodded.

"Broke his nose and everything."

A weak chuckle escaped me.

"I'm just saying," Peter went on. "That it's okay for you to work through this—to be insanely angry. I know I was. But I also want you to trust _me_. I want you to know that I would never put you in danger. And I know he's gonna work hard to make you feel less scared of him."

"That'll take a century," I muttered. Peter shrugged again.

"I think he's prepared for that."

I gritted my teeth.

"So am I."

"Just take it easy, okay?" Peter urged, backing toward the door. "And breathe once in a while. It's good for you."

I wanted to roll my eyes again, but I fought a smile.

"Come on down when you're ready. You ought to eat something." He turned and stepped through the door, then turned halfway back. The look he gave me was completely serious, but soft. "Oh, and there was something else I wanted to make sure I told you if I ever got out of that place."

"What?" I asked. He gave a small smile.

"I love you." He turned and left, trotting down the stairs. "See you in a bit."

I listened to his footsteps as he descended, then turned my face to the sunlight coming in through the window. I couldn't return to that kitchen. Not yet. Not until I had considered everything Peter had told me, and I had decided for myself if any of it could be true.

VVVVV

I managed to evade all of them—not sure how—and stepped out the creaking back door. I peered into the rear garden.

Sunlight streamed down into the yard, which was surrounded by a ten foot stone wall and old, gnarled trees. Shrubberies that hadn't been trimmed in a while lined twisting pathways that circled the flower beds. I stepped out, glad that the air wasn't too cold. It smelled fresh this morning, for the dew had not dried yet. Slight, but crisp wind tossed my loose hair. My shoes scraping on the gravel path, my arms wrapped around me, I wandered out into the bright air, knowing that no one could see me because of the wall.

I was glad I could get out of that house—especially that creepy tower. And after Peter's speech, my mind was so full that the walls felt confining.

My eyes wandered over the flower beds, trying to catch sight of a bit of green poking out of the black soil. Perhaps it was too early. Perhaps the flowers were still too afraid of one last freeze…

My eyes darted to a shred of emerald, and I knelt down, brushing the dirt and dead leaves away from it. It looked like a tulip, maybe. I fingered its delicate leaf. Birds chirped in the bare branches of the trees above me. The wind whispered, but otherwise, the morning was still.

I sat down in the pathway, feeling the warm sun rest on my head and shoulders. I closed my eyes, and hugged my knees to my chest.

For several minutes I just sat there, grateful for the silence and solitude, running Peter's words through my head. Then, a small sound caught the edge of my hearing. It was a little wind chime. It must have been hanging on the front porch. It jingled, just barely, as if it was made by magic.

As I leaned my head back, letting the sun warm my face, a song drifted into my mind—a song my mom used to sing when I was little. And for just a moment, it was as if a soft blanket had wrapped around my shoulders. I closed my eyes and sang the song aloud—not very loudly, but enough so it echoed in the silence.

"_White coral bells upon a slender stalk_

_ Lilies of the valley line my garden walk_

_ Oh, don't you wish that you could hear them ring?_

_ That will happen only when the fairies sing…"_

My voice trailed off. The back of my neck tingled. Someone was watching me. I twisted and studied the dark, quiet house. I couldn't see anything stirring in any of the windows. I frowned. It could easily be Peter or Emma, just checking on me.

"Right," I muttered. But I turned back to the tulip leaf, forced myself to smile, and repeated the song, a little louder this time.

VVVVVVVVVVVVV

Gabriel stood in the bare attic, gazing out the tall window into the back garden. His arms were folded across his chest. The window hung open, and the morning air was chilly. And his heart rate had not calmed for several minutes.

Claire's voice, soft and pure, rang through the garden below like distant bells. His eyes caressed her form—he could only see her back as she sat on the path, but the wind toyed with her hair, which looked like ribbons of gold in the sunlight. Gabriel pressed a hand to his heart as his breath constricted again, and a strange, tightening sensation passed through his ribs. He winced, but did not look away from her.

Footsteps sounded behind him. Gabriel slightly lifted one eyebrow and did not turn.

"I found her," he said.

Behind him, Peter sighed.

"Is she outside?"

Gabriel just lifted his chin. Peter came closer and stood at his shoulder.

"Well, okay, as long as she doesn't go anywhere," Peter said. Gabriel said nothing. He felt Peter's frown.

"Hey, are you okay?" Peter wondered.

"Is she?" Gabriel asked instead.

"Yeah. Yeah, I think so. Just freaked out a little, that's all. I can't blame her." Peter crossed his arms too. "I thought if I just encouraged everyone to go with the flow, it would be easier. And she did good for a while. But I guess your whole milk carton stunt sent her over the edge."

Gabriel ducked his head.

"I didn't mean to scare her."

"Dude, I know," Peter insisted. "She's just generally scared right now. But she'll work this out."

"If you say so," Gabriel murmured.

"My gosh, _now _who's the impatient one?" Peter growled. "You're actually doing spectacularly, you know. Hiro's convinced, Ando's coming around, and Emma actually _likes _you."

Gabriel smiled crookedly.

"She only likes me because _you _want her to."

Peter raised his eyebrows.

"So? What, you're being picky, now?"

Gabriel chuckled. Peter turned and looked out the window at Claire's resting figure. Gabriel lifted his eyes to her again.

"You know me, Peter," Gabriel said quietly. "I can fix anything. But…I've seen her eyes, and felt what's in her voice." He shook his head once. "I'm not sure I can fix this."

Peter turned back around.

"Well, you sure as heck won't if you keep talking like _that_," Peter said. "I thought you'd already decided this. I mean, how badly do you want to make things right with her?"

"More than anything," Gabriel murmured.

"Then do it," Peter ordered. "And remember what you told me over and over when we were working on the clocks."

Gabriel frowned at him.

"What did I tell you?"

Peter gave him a pointed look.

"Don't try to fix a pocket watch with a sledgehammer." Peter slapped his arm. "Come down soon, okay? Hiro and Ando are getting ready to leave."

VVVV

Hiro and Ando had left at mid afternoon. Just _poof_, and they were gone. I had closed my eyes and silently cried out for my dad—hoping down to my bones that he was still okay.

Now, after evening fell and we had eaten supper, I sat curled up in the cushions of the window seat, withdrawn into the shadows of the sitting room. It was cold here, but Emma had brought one of the quilts down from the bedroom and I had wrapped myself in it. Now, the room was only lit by a few golden kerosene lamps and candles. Yes, we had electricity—but we still didn't want to draw attention to ourselves.

Emma and Peter sat at the piano, playing slow chords and individual notes that went together smoothly, but did not form a melody. Occasionally, their gazes would drift through the empty air, and reflexive smiles darted across their faces. Apparently, Emma's power enabled her to see sound, especially music, and Peter had replicated it for now. The notes felt warm, and I could sense them reaching out to me like invisible fingers, trying to soothe my tense muscles. But that wasn't possible. Not when Sylar was so close.

He sat in one of the arm chairs near the mantle, reading a book. Lamplight illuminated half his features, and the spine of the book he was reading. If I squinted and tilted my head, I could make out the words The Princess Bride. Pondering all the reasons he might have picked _that _book kept me still and silent in my spot, trying to stay invisible, as the notes washed over me.

"I want to see you sing something," Emma said.

"What?" Peter stopped playing. So did she. I glanced up at them. Emma cocked her head at Peter.

"Sing something. I want to see what it looks like."

Peter cleared his throat.

"Emma, I can't…I mean, I don't…"

"Sing something easy," she urged. "Like…Greensleeves, or something."

Peter looked cornered. He cleared his throat again, then glanced down at the keys, as if he expected them to help him out.

"Um…" His voice cracked. "Okay…" He took a deep breath, chose a note at random, and then started to sing—thinly and hesitantly. He changed keys twice before he was done with the second phrase.

_"Alas, my love, you do me wrong_

_ To cast me off discourteously_

_ For I have loved you so long,_

_ Delighting in your company._

_ Green—"_

"Oh, Peter, _please _stop," Sylar grimaced, lowering his book. "You're killing me." He looked over at Emma, then pointed at her. "Look—you're killing her, too. Look at her face."

"It's not my fault!" Peter protested. "She asked me to—Hey, I'd like to see you do better."

"Okay, fine," Sylar said, shutting his book and setting it on the coffee table. "I need the piano, though." He got up and crossed to the piano. Giving a sheepish smile to Peter, Emma slid off the bench, and Peter did the same. I sat up a little, closing my fingers around the quilt, watching him.

I expected Sylar to stand in front of the instrument and command it telekinetically again, which would have sent me running from the room—but he didn't.

He sat down, and slowly ran his gaze over the keys, then stroked his fingers up and down all of them as well. Peter, Emma and I went still. Sylar rested his hands in the middle of the keyboard, and, closing his eyes, began to play.

I sat up further. It sounded like an old song—like Handel or Bach—pleasant and quiet. And then, after a short introduction, he started to sing. His voice was untrained, simple, but soft and deep.

"_Did you not hear my lady_

_Go down the garden singing?_

_Blackbird and thrush were silent_

_To hear the alleys ringing_

_O, saw you not my lady_

_Out in the garden there?_

_Shaming the rose and lily_

_For she is twice as fair."_

His music hesitated a little, and it lifted me up and suspended my breathing.

"_Though I am nothing to her_

_Though she must rarely look at me_

_And though I could never woo her_

_I love her till I die!"_

My throat closed. But I kept listening. The song grew sweeter—sadder.

"_Surely you heard my lady_

_Go down the garden singing_

_Silencing all the songbirds_

_And setting the alleys ringing_

_But surely you see my lady_

_Out in the garden there…_

_Rivaling the glittering sunshine_

_With a glory of golden hair!"_

Silence fell. Then, Emma covered her beaming mouth with her hands.

"That was beautiful," she praised. "It made gold and deep red colors—did you see, Peter?"

"Yeah. Pretty cool."

Emma kept praising him. Peter just smiled down at the piano. I got up, my heart hammering. The quilt fell to the floor. I headed for the stairs. And for just an instant, I glanced back and met Sylar's black eyes.

Electricity went straight through me.

Gritting my teeth, I broke away, but made my steps even and calm. I went straight upstairs, into my room, shut the door and leaned back against it, trying to catch my breath, and wondering with a shiver if it was still fear that made my heart race like that.

TO BE CONTINUED


	8. Chapter 8

_Thank you, thank you, dear readers! Keep up the reviews! This chapter is dedicated to Sexy Scottish Accent. ;)_

_VVVVVVVVVVV_

CHAPTER EIGHT

_After about an hour's talk Beauty began to think the Beast _

_was not nearly so terrible as she had supposed at first._

_Then he rose to leave her,_

_And said in his gruff voice:_

"_Do you love me, Beauty?_

_Will you marry me?"_

…

"_**Oh, no, Beast," said Beauty hastily**__._

…

_After he was gone she was very soon in bed_

_And dreaming of her unknown prince._

_She thought he came and said,_

"_Ah, Beauty!_

_Why are you so unkind to me?_

_I fear I am fated to be unhappy_

_For many a long day still."_

_VVV_

Gabriel tucked in his sheets of his bed, and glanced around his partially sunny room. He had chosen a small, single room on the first floor in the rear of the house—it was called "The Captain's Quarters," and was all done in a nautical theme. The walls were gray as Lake Superior, the overhead wallpaper border sported a vast sea battle between French and English sailing ships, and there were various other ship models, paintings and sea shells decorating the room. There was only one clock.

Bending down, he snatched up the plastic bag that carried the clothes Peter had bought for him yesterday, when he and Emma had gone into town—a pair of cargo pants and a dark blue, collared shirt, undergarments and socks. Peter and Emma had shopped at a thrift store for the shirt and pants, but they looked as new as the socks and such.

Gabriel pulled off his old clothes and threw them in a corner—though he had showered since he got here, those old clothes felt awful. Staring at the pile of them, he stopped, and laughed.

"Of course they felt like crap," he muttered. "I wore the same clothes for five years."

He quickly put on the new ones, decided they were quite an improvement, and moved to the dresser to comb his hair.

Sound rang out from the kitchen. The clang of a pan, and a laugh. He stopped in the middle of buttoning his cuff, and listened.

"Yes, I know how to boil an egg. I _do! _Emma, don't look at me like that."

That was Claire's voice. Unable to help it, he edged toward his door, used a touch of telekinesis to silence the latch, and eased the door open. Carefully, he peered down the long hallway into the kitchen. Two pairs of footsteps tracked back and forth within that bright, warm room, and then Claire crossed within his line of sight, heading to his right, toward the sink. Her hair was up in a loose bun, some strands hanging down by her cheeks. She wore the new clothes Emma had bought her—a blue blouse and loose-fitting black pants. Her feet were bare. Gabriel's breath caught in his throat.

She was beautiful.

Claire carried a carton of eggs as she walked, threw a grin over her shoulder at Emma, and then passed out of his line of vision.

"I'm sorry," Emma said, from the direction of the breakfast nook. "You just don't look like the kind of girl who has spent much time in the kitchen."

"Oh, yeah," Claire assured her, and water hissed as she turned on the sink. "I hung out in the kitchen with my mom all the time."

"Sorry, what did you say?" Emma said. "I couldn't see your mouth."

"I said I hung out in the kitchen with my mom all the time."

"Oh! Well, that's good." Emma then walked toward Claire and stopped where Gabriel could see her, her hands full of plastic utensils.

"Did she teach you recipes?" Emma asked, intent on Claire's unseen form.

"Sure. A few. But a lot of times, I just sat on the counter and sang old Girl Scout songs with her while she cooked."

"Songs?" Emma perked up as she grabbed a handful of napkins. Claire laughed.

"Oh, no. No, no."

"Please?" Emma urged. "I like seeing singing."

Claire let out a sigh.

"Okay, if you show me how to turn on this stove."

Emma smiled and stepped out of Gabriel's sight. Something clicked. He heard Claire sigh again. Gabriel smirked, and leaned the side of his head against his door.

"Okay, um…Okay, one song is called The Riddle Song," Claire said as he listened. "And it goes like…" She hesitated, took another breath and sang, her tones businesslike and frank—not at all like those Gabriel had heard two days ago.

"_I gave my love a cherry_

_That had no stone_

_I gave my love a chicken_

_That had no bone_

_I told my love a story_

_That had no end_

_I gave my love a baby_

_With no crying."_

Emma passed back to the nook again, then returned, a frown on her face.

"I don't understand," she confessed. "A cherry with no stone? And a chicken without bones? And a baby that doesn't cry—is it a doll?"

"Haha—what if I make you figure it out, like my mom did?" Claire challenged.

"I am not good at puzzles," Emma protested. Gabriel cocked his head, leaning forward.

"A cherry without a stone…" he whispered. "It's a riddle…which would include different forms of the…" He frowned, lowering his head. "Early on, when a cherry is—"

"Okay, fine," Claire resigned. "When a cherry is blooming, it has no stone."

"That makes sense," Emma admitted. Gabriel blinked, and straightened. A small smile spread on his lips.

"And the chicken?" Emma prompted, turning back toward Claire on her way to the nook with a pile of plates. Emma frowned, then beamed as Claire apparently held something up. Claire laughed. Sylar's smile broadened.

"An egg," he whispered. "A chicken without bones…"

"Ah!" Emma said. "I don't know why I didn't think of that, since we're cooking them."

"And can you guess the story one?" Claire asked.

"The story with no end?" Emma said, vanishing out of the doorway again. Gabriel's brow furrowed, and he took a half step out into the hall.

"Yes, I think so…" Emma mused. "A love story."

Gabriel went still, and swallowed.

"That's right!" Claire said, crossing briefly into his vision before going to the nook. "And…what about the baby?"

"It's not a doll?"

"No."

Gabriel glanced down.

"It's sleeping," he breathed.

"A baby that's asleep isn't crying," Claire revealed.

"Whoops, Claire," Emma warned. "Your water's boiling."

Gabriel withdrew half a step, leaned his head back on the doorframe, and let the sounds in the kitchen wash over him until Emma called them all for breakfast.

VVVV

There was a library on the second floor, down the hall from Emma and my bedroom. After eating another rushed breakfast, I left Emma, Peter and Sylar downstairs, as usual, and retreated upstairs. That library was my saving grace.

I entered the middle-sized, silent room and shut the door behind me. My feet padded on the elaborate rug as I hurried to the couch near the east window. I flung aside the curtains of the tall window, letting the sun stream in, and flopped down on the couch that stood right in front of it. I swiftly wrapped myself up in the blanket I had left there, and snatched up the book I had hidden under the couch.

Getting comfortable, I glanced at the painting of the Regency woman who adorned the front cover, and flipped open to the middle of Pride and Prejudice, searching for my place from yesterday. Yes, I knew there was not much more than talking, dancing, and some traveling in this book. I didn't care. In fact, I loved it. I loved the fact that neither a single gun, nor one drop of blood made an appearance during the whole story. And I just laughed when they complained about their problems.

"Lizzie, dear," I sighed, finding my place at last. "I'd trade places with you any day."

The book held my attention for a good part of the morning, and I was starting to feel drowsy when I heard footsteps on the stairs. I sat up, my eyes flying to the door. However, I relaxed as soon as I tensed. The footsteps were loud and quick, with no attempt at subtlety—definitely Peter.

He opened the door and stuck his head in.

"Hey," he greeted me, coming in.

"Hey," I answered, closing my book. "What's up?"

He shook his head and sat down at the end of my couch.

"Nothing. Just wondering where you were."

"Same place I have been," I answered, turning over on my back and propping my head on the armrest. Peter leaned back in the couch and gazed out the window.

"Could have fooled me. I thought you were a ghost leftover from the previous owners."

I glared at him.

"Why?"

He looked at me.

"Because you don't _speak_," he said. "I mean, I've heard you talk to Emma a few times when you're making meals, but when we all get together you just clam up like you can't talk. _Emma _talks more than you do and she can't even hear what we're saying."

I looked at him indignantly.

"What do you expect me to do? Chat about the weather with _Sylar_?"

"Yeah, that might be a good place to start," Peter retorted, turning toward me, a flash of anger in his eyes. "He's not going to disappear, Claire. You're going to have to deal with that. And he hasn't done anything to offend you since we've been here. He hasn't even _looked _at you very much."

I frowned fiercely and turned my eyes to the window, squeezing my book.

"I don't owe him anything," I gritted. "Why should I have to be the first one to say something?"

Peter sighed.

"You're not."

I blinked, and turned back to him. He opened his coat and pulled something out. I sat up. Peter held out a piece of rolled up paper tied with a white ribbon, and bound in the ribbon was a stalk of purple hyacinth.

"What's that?" I whispered, staring at it. He pushed it toward me.

"It's from Gabriel. He asked me to give it to you."

I stared at it a moment more, then slowly took it from him.

"I'm gonna go help Emma with lunch," Peter declared, standing up. "See you in a few."

He left, and shut the door. I held the paper in both hands for five minutes. After a while, the heady, sweet scent of the hyacinth drifted up and surrounded me. I made myself slip the ribbon off, set the flower down on my lap, and unroll the paper.

The words within were hand-written in black ink, carefully, with a deliberate pen. I recognized its cadence immediately. It had to be one of Shakespeare's sonnets.

_When to the sessions of sweet silent thought  
I summon up remembrance of things past,  
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,  
And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste:  
Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,  
For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,  
And weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe,  
And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight:  
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,  
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er  
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,  
Which I new pay as if not paid before.  
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,  
All losses are restored and sorrows end._

I sucked in, realizing I had not been breathing. Then my eyes caught sight of one last line at the bottom. Frowning, I read it slowly.

_The Language of Flowers__. Upstairs library, second shelf, north wall. _

I sat there for another five minutes. Then, I slowly slid out from beneath my blanket, tiptoed over to the specified shelf, and ran my finger along the spines. I slowed. My finger landed on the book. I shot a glance back at the door. Then, I slid the book out.

With shaking hands, I flipped open to the table of contents. It didn't take me long to find the section for hyacinths. I turned several pages, until I finally found a lovely drawing of a purple hyacinth on the left hand page. And on the right hand side it gave its meaning—simple, in elegant letters:

_I am sorry._

_Please forgive me._

I dropped the book. The spine banged on the floor. I spun around, covering my face with my hands, fighting tears. I swallowed them.

I charged back to the couch, and thudded to the floor in front of it, my brow so twisted it hurt. I snatched up my book, found my place again with fumbling hands, and forced my gaze to the page. But the words blurred together in front of my eyes, and the aroma of hyacinth filled the room, as silent and persistent as the sunshine.

VVVVVVV

Supper was a trial. We ate where we always ate—in the breakfast nook. We had discovered the dining room the other day, but it was huge, fancy, and none of us wanted to spill something in there. So instead, I had to sit at the same little table and listen to Emma and Peter talk, and Sylar shoot occasional jibes into their conversation. Or at least, that was the usual pattern.

Tonight, Sylar said nothing. And perhaps that was my fault.

When I had entered the kitchen, the others were already there, and seated. Sylar, however, had been standing in the middle of the room.

And when he saw me, his entire bearing had lit up. His eyes found mine, and an almost-smile crossed his face.

I looked away.

And after that, nothing Peter could do would coax him to utter a word. In fact, he stared

so murderously down at his plate as he stabbed his food I was genuinely afraid it would catch on fire.

I was concentrating on my baked potato when I heard a chair grind on the floor. I jerked my head up. Sylar rose to his feet, his head bowed, his shoulders hunched. He squeezed his eyes shut.

"Are you okay?" Peter asked, rising too.

"I do not feel well," Sylar said tightly. "Please excuse me—I have to go lie down." And he left, passing out of the kitchen and down the long, dark hall to his bedroom. Emma watched him go, concern evident in her face. I swallowed and folded my napkin. Peter raked his hands through his hair and leaned back.

"Crap," he hissed. He threw down his own napkin, got up and departed as well, into the living room. Emma cast a sad look over the meal she had made, which had hardly been eaten. Then she sighed, rose, and started gathering up the plates. I grabbed her wrist.

"Hey. I'll take care of the table," I said, faking a smile. "You go hang out with Peter."

Emma studied my face and did not smile. But she nodded once, gratefully, and then left as well. The kitchen fell silent. I heard nothing from the living room, and nothing from Sylar's room. Biting my lip, I stood, and began picking up the dishes.

VVVVVVV

_I walked alone through familiar streets in a familiar town. I passed yards and houses I passed every day. But everything was empty._

_ And it was night._

_ Only the moon lit my way. None of the streetlamps worked. My feet were loud on the paving. My breath was noisy in my ears. I drew to a halt, casting my fevered gaze all around me, searching, searching. I stood in the middle of the street. Cold wind blew._

_ "Hello?" I called. My voice sounded unused to speaking. Strands of my gold hair blew in my face. "Hello!" I called again. No one answered. Not even an echo. I wrapped my arms around myself._

_ Everyone was dead. Everyone but me. I had finally lived long enough that the world had disappeared and had not taken me with it. I had lost them all._

_ Peter. Dad. Mom. My grandmother. Emma. Hiro. Ando. All my friends._

_ No one was left. _

_ Except…_

_ There._

_ A shadow against a distant house. I clenched my hands around my coat. I gritted my teeth. My eyes fixed on that tiny movement._

_ He drifted out of the blackness like a wraith. His feet made no sound. He stood in the middle of the road, a hundred yards in front of me._

_ The last man in the world._

_ He opened his eyes. They glowed scarlet. _

_ "Claire."_

_ I gasped. The breath tore me. I staggered back. He said it again._

_ "Claire. It's me."_

_ I whirled and ran. And _now_ I heard his footsteps. _

_ He was following me._

_ And gaining._

"Claire?"

My eyes flew open and I leaped into a sitting position, panting, my eyes unfocused. I could hardly see. My bedroom was dark, and my covers were twisted. A bit of moonlight filtered in through the window, and my gaze fell on Emma in her bed, asleep, her back to me.

"Claire."

I twitched. The door opened just a hair. A little light came in from the hall.

"Claire? Are you awake? May I come in?"

That was _not _Peter's voice. My heart leaped into my throat.

"I…" I choked. "I'm awake."

"It's Gabriel," he said softly. "May I come in?"

"What do you want?" I rasped.

He leaned in a little, and I could see the top of his head, his forehead and the bridge of his nose.

"I'm sorry it's so late—I'm sorry to bother you. I just wanted to talk to you. I have to talk to you. May I please come in?"

Did I have a choice?

I slid off my bed and stood, grabbed my jacket and put it on over my new pajamas, then folded my arms tightly. I took a breath and braced myself.

"Yes."

He hesitated. Then, the door opened a little more and he slid in. Then, he pushed the door open further, so the light entered the room. I glanced over at Emma. She did not stir.

Sylar's head stayed low. He did not look at me. I could only see half of his features, and his eyes stayed in shadow.

"Did you get my note?" he asked.

"Yes."

"And…the flower?"

My mouth tightened.

"I did."

His eyes flickered to mine. He waited. I said nothing. He shifted, but his eyes held mine.

"You have no idea…" he said, his voice unsteady. "How _long _I have wanted to tell you that."

I still did not answer. He took half a step forward. I stepped back. His forehead tightened, and he retreated.

"I wish you wouldn't do that," he said. His voice lowered to a whisper. "I'm not going to hurt you."

"How do I know?" I demanded, though I kept my voice quiet as well. He lifted one eyebrow, just slightly.

"I didn't hurt you the last time I saw you."

"No," I growled. "You just threw me on a couch and forced me to kiss you."

He took a breath.

"I am sorry," he murmured, inclining his head further. "I had no right to do that." He paused, then inched forward again. I almost stepped back again.

"Please don't," he said, holding up a hand. "I swear I won't touch you."

Every muscle stayed tight. But I didn't step back. He took half a step toward me again.

"I know I don't deserve to ask for your forgiveness," he began. "I asked Peter probably a thousand times before he even considered it." He shrugged with one shoulder. "And that was in a place where time didn't really matter. Nothing changed. Except us." He lifted his eyes to mine. Again, it was as if he had caught sight of a familiar painting. He went still for a long moment, just looking at me. "And you were there with me," he finally murmured. "You were my conscience—the light I looked for at the end of a very long tunnel. But out here…" He glanced around the room. "Out here, everything shifts and moves again. I can feel the minutes passing." His voice tightened. "They have power again—power to distract and delay and separate and frustrate. Nothing is constant." He took a step forward again, half of him lit by the hall light, the other half by moonlight. And he stood a mere foot away, gazing down at me. "Nothing is constant except you. And your fear of me." He leaned his face closer, his eyes flitting over my features, then resting on my gaze again. "I see it in your eyes every time I look at you, and reflected back at me is the murderer that I was—the man who deserved your hatred." His voice lowered to a whisper. "The one who made you afraid."

I couldn't move. I wasn't being bound up by telekinesis. I was captured instead by the emotion in his eyes.

"Claire," he murmured.

"What?"

"Reach up with your right hand," he instructed softly. "And put your finger up underneath my jaw, until you can feel my pulse."

"Why?" I closed my hand into a fist. He shut his eyes for a moment.

"Please. I want to show you something." He opened his eyes for an instant, then shut them again. "I won't touch you."

For a long while, I just stood there, my mind whirling. But he waited. And I realized he wouldn't leave until he had accomplished what he came for. So, my fingers quivering, I reached up my right hand, very slowly, and pressed my fingertips to the soft, warm skin of his throat.

He drew in a deep breath—as if he had just come up from under water. His heartbeat thudded against my fingertips. He kept his eyes closed. My hand stayed where it was.

"Okay…" he said. "I know you can feel my pulse. Now, feel along my jaw line, in closer to my throat. Feel for a small bump, like a piece of scar tissue."

I did as he said. My fingers searched carefully, and at last came to rest on a very small point, that did indeed feel like scar tissue under the skin.

"There." His eyes opened. And the corner of his mouth lifted. I did not move.

"What is that?" I asked.

"My weak spot," he said, barely moving his mouth. "Not even Peter knows where it is."

Minutely, I pressed on it. His jaw tightened, and he straightened a bit. I narrowed my eyes.

"Why would you show me this?"

Once again, his gaze hijacked mine. And his eyes shone in the moonlight.

"Because I don't want you to be afraid of me anymore," he breathed roughly. And he reached up with his left hand and lightly touched his fingers to the back of my right hand. His fingers were warm. He took half a step closer. I could not retreat. His eyes held me fast. He swallowed, then half smiled. "You are the Evangeline I've searched for my whole life. You are what kept me from despairing while I was in that prison. And I would be your slave for eternity if you told me I had even the smallest chance to...Claire…" He blinked, and two tears fell down his cheeks. One landed on my wrist. "Claire…" he said again. "Please tell me, I beg you—Can you ever forgive me?"

For just a moment, I stood, as if under a spell.

And then I drew my hand back and slapped him. As hard as I could. He staggered. I stepped in and hit him again. My palm thrashed across his face with all my force. His hand flew to his cheek.

"_No!" _I wailed. "No, I won't! Don't you remember? You tried this on me once before…right before you _killed_ my _father. _And it hasn't been years since that happened—it hasn't even been _months!_ You _killed him_. You slit his throat and left him there to strangle and bleed to death. You killed the people I loved." Tears spilled down my cheeks as a gaping, aching chasm opened in my chest. "I loved him," I gasped. "I _loved _him." I sucked in a jagged breath and spoke through my teeth. "And nothing you will ever do or say will erase what you've done to me."

His gaze fixed on me, his lips slightly parted. I had him in the palm of my hand. And so I twisted the proverbial knife as far and as hard as I could.

"_I hate you_," I said. "The happiest day of my _life _will be the day I find out someone has cut off _your_ head, for once." My voice became low and savage. "I will _never _forgive you."

He blinked. More tears spilled from his obsidian eyes, and the red mark spread on his cheek.

"Claire—"

"_Get out!" _I screamed, beating my fists in the air, tears searing my face. "Get out of this room! Get _out!_"

He pulled in a haggard breath and turned from me.

"As you wish."

And he slipped out of the room as soundlessly as he had come.

I took fistfuls of my hair and stifled a wild scream. I covered my hot face with my hands and stood, shaking, for several minutes. Then, I shut the door, stripped off my pajamas and got dressed, then put the rest of my things in a bag.

I did not care what was going on with the FBI or the government or Hiro or Ando or the rest of the world. I did not even care that Peter would worry for me. I could not stand to be in this house for one more minute.

TO BE CONTINUED

_P.S. (I don't actually know where Sylar's weak spot is. But for all intents and purposes in this story, that's where it needs to be. Thanks!)_


	9. Chapter 9

_All those reviews made my day! My week, maybe! I hope you keep enjoying…and reviewing!!_

_VVVVVV_

CHAPTER NINE

_One night, seeing her look very sad,_

_The Beast asked her what was the matter._

…

_So she answered that she wished to see her home once more._

_Upon hearing this the Beast seemed sadly distressed,_

_And cried miserably:_

"_Ah, Beauty, have you the heart to desert an unhappy_

_Beast like this?_

_What more do you want to make you happy?_

_Is it because you hate me that you want to escape?"_

_VVV_

Gabriel slammed his fingers down on the piano keys, then buried his stinging face in his hands, breathing hard. His whole chest deeply, literally ached, as if his bloodstreams were being rewired—as if his heart was trying to force life and feeling into places it had never been before. He couldn't bear it. And at the same time, he longed for more of it. He had no idea what was happening to him. Maybe he really had lost his mind.

He gasped and swiped the tears from his face with one hand.

"What the heck is going on? I'm hearing screaming upstairs, banging piano music—"

Gabriel spun, blinking through wet lashes, to see a tousled-haired Peter emerge from the bedroom that was attached to the living room.

"Sorry," Gabriel mumbled, getting up from the bench. Peter halted. His eyes flashed.

"What happened?"

Gabriel cleared his throat and shook his head.

"Claire and I…I tried to talk to her."

Peter looked at him sideways and closed the distance between them. Gabriel ducked his head away from Peter's scrutiny.

"She hit you," Peter said.

"It's still red?" Gabriel's hand flew to his face. "I wouldn't think…"

"Is she okay?"

"I didn't hurt her," Gabriel snapped, his vision blurring again.

"Hey, I know," Peter gripped his arm. Then his hand softened, and he patted Gabriel's shoulder. "I'll go up and check on her."

Gabriel nodded swiftly, head low. Peter let go of him and trotted up the stairs. However, he had not even gotten past the tenth step before Emma came hurrying down, still in her pajamas, her hair in disarray.

"What's wrong?" Peter asked, taking hold of her elbow.

"Claire is gone," Emma gasped. Peter's eyes widened.

"What?"

Gabriel whirled around, his gaze flying to the front door.

"She didn't go that way."

"There's a back door—" Peter started. Gabriel knocked the piano bench out of the way with his knee—it fell over. He raced around the staircase toward Peter's room, then down the hall, through the pantry—

And jerked to a halt. The back door hung open, its hinges squeaking quietly in the night breeze.

"No," he gasped, and burst through it. His feet hit the gravel path of the garden, and his eyes darted back and forth, searching the reaches of the shadows. He strained his hearing. Nothing came to him except the distant rustling of the branches.

He put both hands to his head and stumbled backward, closing his eyes and clenching his teeth.

"What have I done?"

VVVVVVVVV

I stared out the window of the semi truck, even though I could see nothing. It was still too dark. But I would rather pretend to be occupied with my surroundings than make conversation with the smelly driver.

I had run from the bed and breakfast as fast as I could, the plastic bag of my things slapping against me. I had clambered over the wall, knocked through a stretch of woods, and finally found a road. I had stood there half an hour before anyone came by. When a big semi came around the bend, I had held out my thumb so the headlights would be sure to catch sight of me.

When the semi had slowed, I definitely had second thoughts. The driver leering down at me had a scruffy beard, no teeth and beady eyes.

"Where ya headin'?" he had asked.

"New York," I answered.

"I'm goin' that way for a while, but then I'm turning west." He had kicked the door open, then. "I'll drop you off at the turnin' point."

"Thanks," I had managed, and crawled inside.

We had been driving for about two hours now, and the night was deep. I guessed it was around one in the morning—the cab clock was broken.

The truck rumbled around a corner, headlights sweeping the bases of the trees, and at last we came to some semblance of civilization. I squinted and leaned forward. It looked like a bar on the outskirts of a town.

The driver pulled in to the half-full parking lot, the brakes squealed, and he put it in park.

"This is as far as you go, little lady," he said. "Good luck."

"Thanks," I said again, pushed the door open and got out, grateful to be out in the fresh air again.

My feet hit the cracked pavement of the parking lot and I got well away from the huge, loud vehicle as it slowly turned and lumbered back onto the highway. Swallowing, I turned to the bar. Maybe I could find someone inside willing to give me a ride.

Drawing myself up, I strode across the parking lot and up to the door. The bar windows were tinted black, and neon signs that hung in them lit the area around the front steps. I pushed open the door.

Noise and smoke assaulted me. It was warm in here. I ducked my head and squinted, but kept going. There were probably thirty people in this low-ceilinged, dimly-lit room. The area behind the bar was better lit, and the bar was crowded—mostly with men. Loud music issued from speakers I couldn't see. People laughed and shouted over the music. I studied all their faces—as much as I could see—and drifted toward the end of the bar, to an empty stool. Gingerly, I perched atop it and leaned my elbows on the bar.

"Can I get you anything, honey?" The bald-headed bar-tender asked, wiping his hands on a rag.

"I'm thinking," I bluffed, giving him a smile. He smiled back.

"Take your time." He headed to the other end of the bar. I watched him go.

And then I caught sight of them.

Five men at the other end of the bar were watching me. They were dressed similarly—black leather, and some chains. One of them had a shaved head, and a bad scar on the left side of his face. They started whispering to each other, but their attention kept focusing back on me.

One of them—a younger man with long black hair—smiled at me. The leer reminded me of a wolf. I glared back, then pretended to scan the beer labels in front of me.

But the hair on the back of my neck began to prickle. My hands slowly closed into fists.

This had been a bad idea. It would be better to walk down the road and head toward the town, maybe find an all-night diner.

Without a backward glance, I got up, headed for the door, and swept back out into the windy night.

Two footsteps sounded behind me.

"Where are _you _headed, sweetheart?"

I smelled the alcohol as soon as I felt his breath on the back of my neck. I didn't turn. I didn't say anything.

I ran.

My feet pounded the gravel as I threw myself into a full-out sprint. I dropped my bag, letting my arms pump freely. I heard the man swear from behind me, then shout orders.

And then, like a pack, the five men suddenly closed in around me.

I had to skid to a halt in the gray light of a streetlamp to keep from running straight into the one with long, black hair. He sneered at me again.

Someone grabbed my left arm. I whipped around and struck him with my right fist. I hit him somewhere in the throat. He gagged and let go of me.

"Oooh, fellas, this one's got a bit of fight," the bald, scarred one crowed. "C'mon, honey, just give us what we want and everything will be okay."

"I don't have anything," I insisted, spinning to face him. "Leave me alone."

"Oh, we can't do that now that you've hit Joe in the neck," the bald one shook his head. "Just hold still."

My heartbeat thundered in my ears. I backed away from him. Another set of hands snatched at my right arm. I beat him off. But then another pair grabbed hold of fistfuls of my hair and jerked me backward. I yelped, my balance thrown. I clawed at them, trying not to fall. Then one of them came around and cuffed me in the face.

I felt the blow thud through my head. I didn't feel its pain. But that made it no less real.

The bald one, eyes wide, his scar standing out freakishly in this light, advanced on me. And suddenly his followers had hold of both my arms. He nodded at one of them. And they ripped off my jacket, wrenching my arms. They threw it aside. And one of them slid his hands around my waist from behind.

And then it came to me, like a bucket of ice water drenching me.

I knew what they were going to do.

"_No!" _I shrieked, thrashing as hard as I could. I bit one man in the arm, but got only thick leather. I kicked out, but only delivered a glancing blow to one shin. The bald one came up and hit me again in the face. And again.

"No! No, don't!" I wailed. "Please!"

He hit me again. I felt blood run down my mouth.

"Shut up," he snarled. Tears scorched my face, blurring my vision. I thrashed again. A hand took hold of a piece of my hair and ripped it out. And my head whiplashed backward, I lost my footing and fell onto my back.

I struck the cold pavement and couldn't breathe. I tried to take a gasping breath, but it would not come. The men pinned my arms over my head. I kicked and kicked. Two more guys grabbed my legs. The bald man grinned, showing a missing front tooth, and bent over me.

"You shouldn't have fought so hard," he said. "You've made me mad, now. But we're still gonna have a little fun." And he reached down and grabbed the top of my pants.

"_No!" _I shrieked.

He froze. For an instant, my hazy mind thought he had heard me. But his head lifted and he gazed up past his gang and frowned.

"What's that?"

And I saw a flash of blue light reflect in his eyes.

TO BE CONTINUED


	10. Chapter 10

_I am so thrilled that you all enjoyed the last chapter! This one is kind of short, but I hope you will like this one equally. The song herein is titled "And So It Goes," by Billy Joel. Have a listen—it's on youtube, and it's lovely._

_VVVVVVVVV_

CHAPTER TEN

For just an instant, that bald man stared. And then, like a shaft from Zeus, blue, scorching lightning hammered into the ground right next to him. The explosion rocked the earth. The men screamed. They covered their heads, and leaped away from me. My head spun, but I tried to lift it. And when I did, I saw that the men were not running.

They were all suspended in mid-air, their limbs all ramrod straight, their eyes wide with terror.

Static crackled in the air. The ground rumbled. One set of footsteps sounded from behind me—calm, steady. I blinked several times, my shocked brain trying to process, hot tears still clouding my vision. I watched a set of feet pass me. I leaned back and gazed up at the dark figure they belonged to.

He held both hands out, palms up. And in his hands, two balls of lightning seethed, like toothy monsters waiting to be unleashed. They lit up his face in stark, sapphire light—his face, which bore an expression of such wounded fury, I hardly recognized him.

But I knew those limitless black eyes, and that delicate mouth, those strong features.

Sylar.

"Who…Who are you?" the bald man stammered, his whole body shaking. Sylar cocked his head, and narrowed his eyes at the man. He said nothing for a long while. Finally, his lips parted.

"Do you have any idea what I want to do to you right now?" His voice was low, and more deadly than I had ever heard. I shivered.

"This is none of your business, freak!" the black haired one shouted, his voice cracking. Sylar's head whipped around to face him. And suddenly, he drew himself up and flung out his hands.

Countless tentacles of lightning shot from his hands, lighting the night up like day, and shattering the air with a deafening roar. I covered my face with my hand, but couldn't help but look through my trembling fingers.

The lightning beams gathered together, then, and with a shriek like a breaking light bulb multiplied a million times, the single pillar of fire rocketed heavenward and dispersed. Thunder rolled through the darkness. And silence fell. Barely breathing, I tried to focus my eyes, expecting my attackers to be merely charred remains.

However, there they stood, the five of them, on solid ground, unharmed, their faces ash-white, edges of their clothing smoking. Sylar took two steps toward them. They cowered.

"I am Gabriel," he said. "And you are very lucky I met you when I did." He lowered his head. A spark shot from his thumb to his forefinger. "Now get out."

For a moment, they stood, as if they were about to faint or be sick. Then, they staggered backward, eyes like owls', and fled back into the shadows, yelling for the manager of the bar, and the police.

Sylar let out a long breath. I squeezed my eyes shut as the tears flowed down my face, unstoppable. My hand groped out in the darkness for something—perhaps my jacket. My bare elbows scraped the pavement as I searched. Instead, I caught hold of a man's shirt sleeve.

"Claire—"

I released a strangled sob, breaking out in spasms of shaking.

"They were going to…They…" I choked, my hands flailing as my sight blurred over. My hands caught fistfuls of shirt, and then warm arms slid around me and pulled me in, wrapping me up like a shield. I buried my face in his chest. I heard the thunder of his heartbeat. His hand pressed against the back of my head, and his face leaned down against my hair. I gasped, moaned and shook spasmodically, my eyes squeezed shut.

Yes, I knew I was weeping in Sylar's arms. And later, I would remember all of the reasons that I hated and despised him.

But right now, all my paralyzed brain could calculate was that he had saved me.

VVVVVVVVVV

I couldn't walk—my mind was numb. But that was all right. Because Sylar carried me. And the way back to the bed and breakfast was not long. Because we flew.

He held me tight to him, cradling me, and we soared silently over treetops and houses. The bridge of my nose pressed against his neck, my arms encircled his shoulders. I closed my eyes, knowing I would swoon if I looked down. But I knew he would not drop me.

He didn't speak the entire trip. Over the sound of cool, rushing wind, I felt the beat of his pulse against my nose. My tears got his collar wet. He didn't complain.

At last, we touched down in the back yard of the bed and breakfast. I sucked in a breath when his feet hit the path, and lifted my head. He strode forward. The door opened without a touch from him, and once we were inside, it shut of its own accord as well.

He brought me in to the sitting room, and the warmth of it enveloped me. Several kerosene lamps still burned, and three candles. I smelled the oil.

Sylar bore me to the couch, bent, and set me down there, then moved to withdraw. I sat up straight, my hands reflexively clenching around his shirtsleeves.

"I'll be right back," he said. My jaw was so tight I could not speak. I blinked rapidly, trying to clear my vision. When I succeeded, his face was mere inches from mine, his brilliant, dark eyes watching me. Then his brow twisted, as his gaze flitted over all my features. His fingers gently eased my grip off of his shirt, and he reached up with his right hand and barely touched my lips with his thumb. He then rested his forefinger under my chin and shook his head.

"I could kill them," he whispered. I looked down. He rose and headed off to the kitchen. I sucked in a ragged breath, lifted my hand and felt the place on my head where they had ripped out my hair. My scalp had healed, but the patch of hair was still missing. I then ran my fingertips over my face, and realized that more than half of it was covered in caked blood.

I tried to keep myself from sobbing out loud. I bit it back, swallowed it, and only a groan and a gasp escaped. I clamped my shaking hands together in my lap and lowered my head.

Sylar strode back in, carrying a bowl of water and a rag.

"We don't have a first aid kit here," he said. "But we don't really need to sterilize anything, since you're so incredible." He gave a crooked smile as he pulled the coffee table over with his telekinesis and setting the bowl down. He held the rag out to me. "Do you want to…?"

"What?" I asked numbly, frowning.

"Okay," he sighed, and knelt down in front of me. He dipped the rag in the water, wrung it out, and then brought it up to my face.

I flinched away.

"It isn't hot," he assured me quietly. "Just warm."

Shaking all over, I made myself stay still. Hesitating a moment, he then began wiping my face with the rag. I closed my eyes as the warmth sent chills down my back. He brought his other hand up to my neck to steady my head, and kept wiping, evenly and gently.

Tears kept sliding from my eyes and onto my cheeks. I couldn't help them. But he just swiped them away along with the blood. Once or twice, he rinsed the rag out, wrung it again, and started over. I felt drops of water land on my hands.

Finally, my whole face was wet, but I could feel that the blood was gone.

"I'll get you a towel," he said, rising and taking the bowl and rag back to the kitchen. I let out a long sigh, my eyes drifting closed.

Fingers touched mine, and then a soft towel pressed into my hands. I straightened, took the towel and dried my face and neck.

"Where's Peter and Emma?" I mumbled.

"They went looking for you, too," he answered. "We agreed to meet back here at three this morning if we hadn't found you yet. They'll be here in about half an hour."

"Okay," I breathed. Then I swayed sideways.

"Hey, lie down," Sylar suggested. "Here, here's a pillow." He propped up one of the couch pillows against the armrest. Stiffly, I leaned over, and, curled up tight, I rested my head on the pillow.

Sylar snatched the quilt off the back of the couch, unfolded it, and draped it over me. He tucked it up around my shoulders, then tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. Then he backed up, looked at me for a moment, then took the towel back to the kitchen.

I lay there, my mind blank, as the warmth of the blanket slowly seeped into my muscles.

He returned, his footsteps quiet.

"Do you need anything?" he asked. I didn't answer. So he sat on the piano bench, facing me For several minutes, silence reigned, and I tried to quell my quivering. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw him turn around, and set one hand on the keyboard.

"Do you mind if I play?" he wondered. "Just to…you know. It's quiet in here, and if you..."

I stared blankly at the mantelpiece. He didn't finish.

And then, piano music started, played by careful fingers. Deliberate chords, soft and melancholy. At first, I thought it was a hymn. The notes wandered through the living room, washing over me. And then, like the voice of a ghost, Sylar started to sing.

"_In every heart there is a room  
A sanctuary safe and strong  
To heal the wounds from lovers past  
Until a new one comes along."_

His voice was different, this time. Deep. Sad. And so unveiled that it went straight into my heart.__

"I spoke to you in cautious tones  
You answered me with no pretense  
And still I feel I said too much  
My silence is my self defense.

And every time I've held a rose  
It seems I only felt the thorns  
And so it goes, and so it goes  
And so will you soon, I suppose.

_But if my silence made you leave  
Then that would be my worst mistake  
So I will share this room with you  
And you can have this heart to break."_

I knew Sylar was only playing for something to do, to fill the barren silence. I also knew he had not written the song. But it was as if he was sitting right in front of me, just talking. New, different tears started running down my cheeks. They were cold. I couldn't explain them, but I couldn't stop them. I turned my face into the pillow as he kept playing and singing.

_  
"And this is why my eyes are closed  
It's just as well for all I've seen  
And so it goes, and so it goes  
And you're the only one who knows."_

I wanted to cover my ears. But I also dreaded that empty silence—I would rather hear his voice than nothing at all.He softened the music, and as he did, the pressure built against my chest.

_  
"So I would choose to be with you  
That's if the choice were mine to make  
But you can make decisions too  
And you can have this heart to break._

_  
And so it goes, and so it goes  
And you're the only one who knows."_

The notes faded into silence, and with it went my consciousness. I closed my eyes, let myself be overwhelmed, and sank into darkness.

Later—I am not sure when—I heard muffled voices all around me. I did not open my eyes, or make a sound. I couldn't. I felt like I was made of stone.

But then I felt someone sit on the couch next to me, and close his hand around mine. I knew his touch—it was Peter. I then felt his lips press a kiss to my temple. Then, he withdrew, but the warmth did not leave. And I felt myself healing as I listened to the tones of the three quiet voices fill the silence of the room.

TO BE CONTINUED


	11. Chapter 11

_So glad to entertain! :D Keep up the reviews!!!_

_VVVVVVVVVVVV_

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I woke up. Sunlight streamed into the sitting room. I remembered where I was. Domestic sounds came from the kitchen—the gurgle of a coffee pot, pans being put away. I felt a sudden pang, like I was home. Almost.

Emma came out of the kitchen carrying a cup of tea. She smiled broadly at me.

"Hello, honey," she said, set the cup down, knelt and wrapped me up in a tight hug. I hugged her back, closing my eyes. She backed up and smoothed my hair.

"Hi, Emma," I said. She looked at me intently.

"Are you hungry?"

I shrugged.

"A little."

"Okay. Come in the kitchen with me."

I pushed the quilt off myself, my hand lingering on it for a moment. I stood, and started to follow Emma. Then I turned back, picked up the quilt and wrapped it around my shoulders, and it dragged behind me like a long robe. Emma entered the kitchen and went straight to the refrigerator. I eased myself down at the table. I glanced around.

"Where are…the guys?"

Emma didn't answer. She was peering into the fridge. Biting my lip, I lifted my hands, and clapped.

She blinked, and faced me.

"What?"

"Where are Peter and…" I trailed off, suddenly at a loss as to what to call him. Emma answered anyway.

"They went for a walk," she said. "Peter said Gabriel needed to get out of the house and stretch. He sat beside you all night long."

I frowned.

"He did?"

Emma nodded, pulling out the orange juice. She gauged the amount—there wasn't much left in the carton. She threw a smile at me as she turned to get a cup.

"Gabriel likes you very much. He told me all about you while you were sleeping."

My frown deepened, more with confusion than anything else.

"How the heck does he know anything about me?" I asked, but Emma wasn't looking at me. She was pouring the orange juice, and kept going with her train of thought.

"He told me all about how brave you are, and determined—and pretty." Emma smiled at me again. "Peter said he didn't want to sit and listen to all that 'mushy stuff'—he said he'd heard it all before—and went to bed. But I liked it." She came over and handed me the juice. "It's refreshing when a man _admits_ that he's in love."

My heart thudded, and I drew in a breath, my eyes wide at her. She didn't see. She turned back to the refrigerator, opened it, and pondered over its contents.

"In…In _love_?" I repeated. "That…Sylar doesn't know the _meaning _of…I mean…" My words couldn't possibly come out coherently. It didn't matter. Emma wasn't paying attention. She shut the fridge, and went to the counter to pull out the loaf of bread and plug in the toaster.

"He did not come out and say that, of course," Emma went on. "But I could tell."

She looked at me. I seized the chance.

"How could you tell?"

She shrugged and took out two pieces of bread.

"I usually can't see voices. And I can't when he's talking about the weather or something. But when he talks about you, his voice is different—I _can _seeit. It's like…" She trailed off, thinking. My hands closed around the blanket.

"Like what?" I demanded. Emma looked at me.

"Like music." And she smiled at me again. Then she cocked her head. "Do you want butter on your toast?"

VVVVVVVV

The rest of the day passed quietly. I took a walk around the garden, checking on that tulip, and noticing that a rosebush by the side of the house had just started to bloom. I then retreated upstairs and finished Pride and Prejudice.

Peter came up and sat with me for a while in the middle of the afternoon. He didn't say much. But once, he got choked up and tried to tell me he was sorry for not protecting me. I scolded him hard, then hugged him. And I told him I loved him. Normally, I'm not like that. But the events of the previous night had given me a new perspective, at least for a while.

As evening fell, I lay on my couch alone in the library, drowsily considering the way the soft light crossed the floor.

A thought struck me. It made me sit up straight, and my skin went cold. The possible ramifications of this thought settled in the pit of my stomach like ice. But I knew I had to do it, now that it had come to me in such clarity.

I got up, crossed the floor and picked up the book of flower language from the place where I had dropped it. I flipped through it thoughtfully, and finally came to a page that made me stop and study it for a long time. I felt a small smile lift my lips, and I nodded. Then, all I had to do was wait.

I waited until darkness fell. I listened atop the stairs while Emma and Peter played their piano duet and Sylar listened and commented once in a while. I noted when they each said they were heading to bed. I heard them express their concern for me, and decide to let me be for now. And then I made certain each one had gone to bed. Then, I slipped downstairs, book still in hand, and out the back door.

I was barefoot, the grass was cold, and the wind cut through my clothes. I hurried around the side of the house, folding the book close to my chest, and found the rosebush by the light of the moon. I peered at it, trying to find the right sized bloom. Once I did, and looked at it for a long time, I flipped the book open and compared that bloom to the one in the picture. I nodded again, closed the book, and then broke off the bloom I wanted, with a long enough stem. I then crept back in, trying to keep the thorns from pricking me.

I hesitated in the middle of the living room, nearly losing my nerve. I hesitated again in the kitchen. Then, I rolled my eyes, muttered to myself to quit being stupid, then set the book down in front of Sylar's closed door. I then laid the rose blossom on the cover. Wincing, and hoping I had made no noise, I quickly retreated back through those two rooms and up the stairs.

I ducked into the bathroom and got ready for bed, changed into my pajamas, slipped into the bedroom and crawled under the covers.

As I lay there in the dark, gazing up at the ceiling, I thought about what I had done. But the small smile crossed my face again as I reminded myself of the meaning of the tea rose I had set outside his door:

_I will always remember_.

VVVVVVVVVVVVV

I woke up to the sound of a bone-wrenching scream. I flung my covers off and shot to my feet, only to freeze, my skin crawling.

The wail issued again, and I threw my arms around myself, backing up against my bed.

"Sylar," I whispered. For it was his voice. And it sounded as if he was being killed. He howled again, shaking the rafters. And then a door banged, and Peter's tones cut in.

"Gabriel! Oh, man, okay—hey! Hey, hey, wake up."

I darted to the door, pulled it open and crouched on the top step.

"Gabriel!" Peter shouted again. Sylar gasped hard.

"Oh!" His breaths shivered uncontrollably. "_Peter_…"

"Hey, it's okay," Peter soothed. "Same old crappy dream, huh?"

"Yeah," Sylar said hoarsely. My muscles tensing, I crept down the steps to the bend in the staircase, then knelt down and peered around into the living room.

Peter had hold of Sylar's arm, and guided him to the couch. Sylar sat down, bent over and covered his face, strands of dark hair hanging down.

"I'll be right back, okay?" Peter said. "Get you something for your stomach."

"Nothing helps, you know that," Sylar muttered.

"Hey, all we had to work with before was water and coffee," Peter answered, heading toward the kitchen.

"All we _have_ is water and coffee," Sylar retorted, dropping his hands. My breath caught. His cheeks were tearstained, his brow tight. He swiped at his face.

"Just sit tight, okay?" Peter said. Sylar sniffed, and brushed his hair away from his face, then folded his hands, bent his head and closed his eyes. He took deep, purposeful breaths. I couldn't take my eyes from him.

Peter came back bearing two mugs. Sylar lifted his head.

"What is it?"

"Hot chocolate," Peter answered. Sylar's brow furrowed.

"We have hot chocolate?"

"I bought some when I went on the walk with Emma today."

Sylar accepted one steaming mug from Peter, and Peter sat down in the armchair next to him, and braced his elbows on his knees, and gazed at Sylar, as if waiting. Sylar held his mug in both hands and gazed down at the liquid inside.

"I haven't had that nightmare since we got out," Sylar murmured. "I wonder what caused it this time."

Peter shrugged and took a sip.

"Dunno. I mean, the thing with Claire was scary. And you haven't used powers like that since…"

Sylar put his mug down on the coffee table and suddenly sat back. His face twisted, though he clearly fought his emotion, and tears welled up. He swiped desperately at his face with both hands, then clenched his hand into a fist and pressed it against the bridge of his nose.

"Oh, God!" he suddenly cried, and if it was not a plea, it was nothing. And then he broke down.

"Hey, hey," Peter quickly put his own drink down, got up and sat next to Sylar, putting an arm around his shoulder. Sylar bent over, burying his face in his hands and openly weeping—and looking as if he might throw up. Shock opened up inside me, and I leaned against the banister, unable to look away. Peter gripped Sylar's shoulder tightly, leaning down toward him, intent and determined.

"Man, it's going to be okay," Peter said.

"Peter, you don't know what I…" Sylar tried, moving his hands enough to speak. "I almost…Those men last night, I wanted to…I almost…" He gestured helplessly. "I followed the highway, like you suggested. When I flew over and heard her screaming, and then when I came down and realized what was happening, what they were _doing _to her…" He clamped his hands together. "I…My vision went red. And I _wanted _to be a murderer again."

Peter rubbed his hand firmly back and forth between Sylar's shoulders, as my dad had often done to me when I was upset.

"But you didn't," Peter said, finally letting him go and folding his hands together. "See? You didn't kill them. Any of them."

"I wanted to."

"So?" Peter countered. "Everybody's tempted, all the time. It's what you actually _do _that counts. That's what matters."

Sylar let out a long, rattling breath.

"It doesn't matter."

Peter frowned.

"What do you mean?"

Sylar glanced at him.

"No, I'm glad I saved her," he said quickly. "I just…" He raked a hand through his hair. "It didn't change anything."

"Give her time," Peter urged. Then he sat up. "Hey, how did you wind up in here, anyway? I don't remember you walking this kind of distance in your sleep before."

Sylar shrugged.

"We're in the real world now. And no, I don't have any idea how I got here. All I know is that I kicked something when I came out of my room. I think."

Peter straightened.

"Kicked something? There's nothing on the floor in your hall."

"That's what I remember," Sylar sighed, rubbing his eyes. Peter got up and went into the kitchen so I couldn't see him. Sylar leaned back again.

But then his gaze sharpened, and he sat up.

"What's that?"

Peter came into the sitting room again.

"This is what you kicked," he said, and held up the language of flowers book, and the tea rose. Sylar's whole frame lifted. He held out his hands. Peter handed them both to him.

He caught up the rose, holding it carefully, then took a deep breath of it.

"So…what's up?" Peter asked, sitting in the armchair again.

"It's a message," Sylar said. "I just have to figure out…" He set the rose down, opened the book, and flipped through the pages. He glanced over at my rose several times, comparing it to the pictures. I felt my little smile return as I watched. Finally, he stopped turning pages, and stared down at one.

"It's a tea rose," Sylar murmured.

"Okay…" Peter raised his eyebrows. Sylar didn't say anything for a long while.

"Is that…supposed to mean something?" Peter prompted.

"Yes," Sylar murmured. "It means 'I will always remember.'"

Peter straightened.

"Is that from Claire?"

Sylar nodded.

"Well, that's good!" Peter declared. "It means she's grateful you saved her!"

"Or it could mean that she's still unwilling to forgive me," Sylar replied, picking up the rose again and studying it.

"Maybe. Whatever," Peter shook his head. "Don't you get it? It's _good,_ regardless."

Sylar's brow furrowed.

"How?"

"She's talking to you," Peter said. "All on her own. I didn't tell her to do that. She took the initiative to communicate with you. And yeah, it could mean that she won't forgive you. But you have to admit that it could _also _mean that she'll always remember that you saved her."

I leaned the side of my head against the banister. And something pulled against my heart as I gazed at Sylar—pulled alot harder than I was comfortable with. Especially when he fingered the petals of the rose, and gave a small smile that bore an emotion that cut into me—but it was an emotion I suddenly realized I had been subconsciously trying to inspire:

Hope.

TO BE CONTINUED


	12. Chapter 12

_Lovely reviewers, you delight me, as always—and I hope to continue to delight you!_

VVVVVVVVVVVVV

CHAPTER TWELVE

"_Barely even friends_

_Then, somebody bends_

_Unexpectedly…"_

_-Beauty and the Beast_

I heard birds singing before I opened my eyes. Warmth from morning sunlight rested all over me. I took a deep breath and sighed, and finally looked around my room.

Emma was already gone, her bed made. I sat up, feeling a pang of guilt. I ought to help her make breakfast.

I got up, got dressed, and hurried into the bathroom. I washed and brushed my teeth, and braided my hair, so that the bare patch didn't show as much. And when I looked in the mirror, I decided I looked cute today, in spite of everything.

Pushing my ever-present worry about my dad to the back of my mind, I went quietly downstairs, and passed through the empty living room.

My footsteps slowed before I entered the kitchen.

There was someone in there. But it wasn't Emma. Slowly, I stepped in…

And saw Sylar sitting alone at the far end of the little table, a mug of coffee cradled in both hands on the tabletop. He lifted his face and saw me.

He was pale, with dark circles under his brilliant black eyes, one strand of dark hair falling across his forehead. He was dressed, but his collar was crooked and his cuffs were unbuttoned.

His eyebrows went up and his mouth opened, but he didn't speak. I stopped. For a moment, we just looked at each other.

Then, slowly, I bent my head.

"Good morning."

He swallowed.

"Good morning," he managed.

"Where are Emma and Peter?" I asked.

"They walked to town," Sylar said, rubbing the rim of his mug with his thumb. "Emma said we needed more food, since…Well, Hiro and Ando should be back today."

I nodded, and stood there for another moment. Then I turned to the refrigerator. I pulled the door open, feeling Sylar's eyes on me, and picked out the carton of milk. Then, I shut the door, stood aside and poured myself a cup. I turned around. Sylar looked down quickly, clearing his throat. I took a breath, my chest tight, both hands around my cup.

"How did you sleep?"

My voice didn't come out as loudly as I had planned. His eyes flew to mine. He studied my face for a second, then glanced around. He swallowed again.

"Not very well, to be honest," he finally said. I nodded.

"Yeah." I stared down at my milk. "I…haven't been sleeping too good, either. Probably has something to do with being in a strange place, you know?" My eyes found his again. "Strange bed and all that."

He was quick to nod.

"Yes, that's probably it."

I looked at my milk again, and took a step forward.

"It's kind of irritating. Strange places always make me have bad dreams," I said. He didn't answer. But when I looked up at him, his eyebrows came together, and his eyes were like open windows. Taking a breath and drawing myself up, I pulled out the chair on the opposite end of the table and sat down. He straightened, staring at me, but said nothing.

"I have this one dream…nightmare, really," I said studying my cup. "I've had it since I was little—I'm walking through my hometown, but there's nobody there. It's totally empty. I don't even think there are any birds. I remember it being windy, but that's the only thing that moves. I run everywhere, yell for my mom, but…nobody answers." I shrugged, looked up, then almost smiled at him. "Weird, huh?"

He watched me for a long moment, the nodded once.

"That would keep me awake."

I took a drink of my milk, and made myself swallow. I glanced at the door.

"I'm starting to get jealous of Peter and Emma."

He cocked his head.

"Why?"

"'cause they get to go out and walk around," I gestured indignantly, for the sake of conversation. "You and me are stuck here like rats in a cage and they get to go breathe fresh air and go shopping."

"Peter says there's not much in town," Sylar said. "A little general store and a clothing place."

"I don't care—shopping for paper towels sounds fun right now," I sat back in my chair. He smirked—a stifled laugh—and took a sip of coffee. We were silent a moment, and he took to rubbing his mug with his thumb again.

"You know," he cocked an eyebrow as he watched the motion of his fingers. "There's a large stretch of woods behind this house. Goes on for miles."

I looked at him sideways, unsure of what he was suggesting. He must have sensed my suspicion.

"You and Peter could easily walk through there and nobody would see you," he said. My shoulders relaxed.

"Yeah," I said. "Maybe we'll do that."

Silence fell. I bit my lip, having run out of ideas. Shrugging with my eyebrows, I got up and headed toward the counter. Sylar shifted, scooting back in his chair.

"Well…I'll go out in the…" He got up, and picked up his coffee. He cleared his throat again. "I'll sit out…"

I clenched my jaw, closed my eyes for just a moment, then grabbed the loaf of bread.

"You don't have to."

I sensed him stop. I glanced at him, trying to keep my tone light.

"You want a piece of toast?"

For a long while, he just looked at me—

Then gave me a genuine, albeit hesitant, smile.

"Yes, thank you," he answered, and sat back down.

_Claire…_A voice hissed in my head. _What are you doing?_

I reached up and pushed a loose strand of hair out of my face, and my fingers traced over the bare patch for just a moment.

Swiftly, I unwrapped the loaf of bread, pulled out a paper towel and the toaster, and began buttering two pieces of bread.

VVVVVVVVVVV

Sylar and I didn't have much of a conversation over toast—but we did talk. A little. And neither of us ever mentioned any words like "hate," "forgive," "sorry," or "bloody murder." Instead, we talked about completely unimportant things, like when we thought this house had been built, and how in the world the previous owners had kept that rosebush alive through the terrible winters. Our sentences were halting, like slow footsteps on a half-frozen pond, and Sylar was very quick to agree with anything I said…

But it was okay. Which was stunning in itself.

Sylar finished eating before I did, cleaned up his place, and then, with a cordial word and another careful smile, left the kitchen. I finished my milk, then sat there, gazing at the place where he had been, as a new realization slowly sank in:

Being with Sylar was—just barely—better than being alone.

Sighing, I cleaned up my own place, wandered up to the library and picked out another book—The Count of Monte Cristo—and trailed out into the sunny garden.

I halted when I caught sight of Sylar's form reclining back against a tree in a patch of sunshine halfway across the garden. He was engrossed in a book. I watched him for a minute, but when he didn't lift his eyes, I found my own tree on the opposite side, in my own bit of sunlight, and sat down.

I sighed. I loved the feel of the sun on my face, and the sounds of the birds all around me. The wind did not intrude too much, and the beginning of the book was engaging. I almost—_almost—_forgot Sylar was there.

After about an hour, I heard footsteps, and looked over the top of my book to see Sylar strolling along the path, observing the plants that were coming up.

I took another breath as I considered, weighing the possibilities. I opened my mouth, stopped, then just blurted it out.

"What book are you reading?"

He looked up, startled, then glanced at the cover. I arched an eyebrow, expecting him to answer "Dracula" or "Catcher in the Rye" or "Grapes of Wrath."

"I just finished The Princess Bride," he said.

"Oh," I frowned, thrown. Then, I distantly recalled seeing him reading it several nights ago. "Is that, like, an adaptation of the movie or something?"

He shook his head and came over to me, still studying the hard, brown cover.

"No, it was written before the movie by quite a bit—but the author was really clever." Sylar opened the front cover. "He makes you think that he only _translated _a book by S. Morgenstern that was written in the native language of Florin…which of course, doesn't exist." He flashed a small smile and looked at me to gauge my reaction. For a moment, I gazed up at him, seeing the sunlight dance across his face. I resisted the urge to smile back, and cocked an eyebrow again.

"So…you've seen the movie?"

He nodded.

"Yeah. Who hasn't?"

"Probably Peter," I muttered.

"You're right—he doesn't get out much," Sylar turned toward the house, but I caught a glimpse of a smirk. I suddenly went cold, weird chills racing all over my skin. This was impossible—this right here. And I shouldn't be letting it happen. Talking with him should not be…easy.

He glanced back down at me.

"You're welcome to read it, if you want." He held it out to me. "When you're finished with Edmond Dantes, of course."

I stared at it a moment, then took it from him. The cover was warm where his hands had held it.

"I'm going to look for another book," he decided, turning and striding back to the house with his hands in his pockets. "Pilgrim's Progress caught my eye." And he looked back over his shoulder at me for an instant, and beamed. My heart thudded. The back door swung open for him, squeaking as it did, and he disappeared into the house.

"Stop it, Claire," I scolded myself, regulating my breathing. "You—" My fingertip brushed the corner of something sticking out from between the pages of The Princess Bride. My brow furrowing, I opened the book to that spot…

To see a little strand of ivy resting on the pages. I shot a glare at the back door, then fingered the green leaves. That had been deliberate. He was answering my rose message.

But what did _this _mean?

I ground my teeth. Crap. _He _was going to be up in the library right now, so I obviously couldn't go up there and poke through the language of flowers book in front of him. I would have to stay out here until he came back out, and then wait even longer, so it didn't _look _like I was going straight up there to find out what ivy stood for…

I put Princess Bride down on the grass and tried to keep reading Count. But the words went blank, and I realized I had turned three pages and not retained anything. Grunting in exasperation, I shut it, and moved to The Princess Bride, hoping it would hold my attention, since I already knew what it was about, and I could picture the characters easier.

But it was a _struggle_. And that had nothing to do with the cleverness or the skill of the writer. Under other circumstances, I was certain I would be enraptured. But for some reason that I _did not _want to explore, my attention just wandered, and my eyes kept drifting up to the back door—or I reflexively looked there when I imagined I heard it opening. As a result, I finally clenched my teeth so hard it hurt, and I _forced _myself to pay attention to the _story_.

But then, gradually, I didn't have to be forced. And when I got to Buttercup's speech to Westley, I think I stopped breathing altogether, my eyes riveted on the page.

_"'I love you,' Buttercup said. 'I know this must come as something of a surprise to you, since all I've ever done is scorn you and degrade you and taunt you, but I have loved you for several hours now, and every second, more. I thought an hour ago that I loved you more than any woman has ever loved a man, but a half hour after that I knew that what I felt before was nothing compared to what I felt then. But ten minutes after that, I understood that my previous love was a puddle compared to the high seas before a storm. Your eyes are like that, did you know? Well they are.'" _

I bent over that book, tilting it so the full sun spread over the page. I didn't blink as I kept reading, my heart speeding up.

"_'I love you so much more now than twenty minutes ago that there cannot be comparison. I love you so much more now then when you opened your hovel door, there cannot be comparison. There is no room in my body for anything but you. My arms love you, my ears adore you, my knees shake with blind affection. My mind begs you to ask it something so it can obey. Do you want me to follow you for the rest of your days? I will do that. Do you want me to crawl? I will crawl. I will be quiet for you or sing for you, or if you are hungry, let me bring you food, or if you have thirst and nothing will quench it but Arabian wine, I will go to Araby, even though it is across the world, and bring a bottle back for your lunch. Anything there is that I can do for you, I will do for you; anything there is that I cannot do, I will learn to do.'"_

My eyes misted up, but I blinked quickly and kept going, unaware of myself as the words unfolded in front of me.

"'_Dearest Westley--I've never called you that before, have I?--Westley, Westley, Westley, Westley, Westley,--darling Westley, adored Westley, sweet perfect Westley, whisper that I have a chance to win your love.' And with that, she dared the bravest thing she'd ever done; she looked right into his eyes."_

I stopped. I came back to myself in a rush. And I realized that, in my suspense, I had pressed the ivy leaves up against my lips.

I sucked in a gasp, sat up straight, and stared down at the ivy, and then at the book, as if they both had turned against me.

"_This_," I declared hoarsely. "Is _unacceptable_." And I shut the ivy in the book, snatched up Count, and stomped all the way around the house and in the _front _door instead.

VVVVVVVVVV

Later in the day, in the bustle of Peter and Emma returning with food, and the three of them going to the kitchen to unpack the groceries and begin fixing lunch, I stole away to the library. I had not been able to think of anything but that stupid ivy branch for hours. I told myself I was just finding out so that it could quit distracting me. I didn't pause to examine myself further. I refused.

My hands finally found the book, I glanced all around the room and listened to make sure no one was going to come into the library while I was looking this up. I flipped open to the page with the illustration of ivy, and my eyes rested a long time on its meaning—I turned the words over and over in my mind, and let them settle down inside me. Finally, I shut the book, and went back downstairs, the words etched in my memory for later study:

_I am your faithful friend._

TO BE CONTINUED


	13. Chapter 13

_All of your encouragement keeps me going—I hope you know that. This chapter is dedicated to Gamebird and Silverhelix. ;)_

_VVVVVVVV_

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Peter knocked over an entire carton of milk when Hiro and Ando popped into being rightnext to him. Peter flew backward, straight into Gabriel's chest, nearly knocking him over, too.

"Woah—watch it!" Gabriel grabbed him and keeping them both from falling.

"Oh, no!" Emma cried, diving for the carton, but it was too late—it was already splattered over the floor.

"Oh, man—I'm sorry, Emma," Peter sighed, shaking out his left hand, which was now all wet.

"Don't do that!" Claire yelped, swiping up a towel and shoving it at him. "You'll get it all over everywhere else!"

Hiro let go of Ando's hand, and both of them backed up, eyes wide.

"So sorry!" Hiro said quickly. "We didn't mean to frighten you!"

"Nothing new," Peter muttered, taking up the towel and trying to calm his racing heartbeat. "Good to see you guys."

Hiro grinned at him.

"Good to see you, too."

"And glad that they haven't found you yet," Ando added darkly. Peter frowned, his hands going still.

"What do you mean?" Gabriel asked from Peter's shoulder. Claire straightened, her keen eyes on the newcomers. Emma knelt down on the floor and began mopping up the milk. Hiro's face grew grave.

"Aaron Flynt is coming."

Peter cocked his head.

"Aaron Flynt?"

"He is the FBI agent who is conducting the investigation," Ando said. "And even though there have been two earthquakes and controversial legislation going through congress, he has been persistent. Relentless."

"Of course," Hiro said. "It is a case of revenge."

"What?" Gabriel cut in, stepping forward. Hiro looked at him.

"Aaron Flynt is the uncle of Sue Landers."

Peter saw Gabriel go pale.

"Sue…Who's that?" Claire asked, her eyes darting back and forth between Gabriel and Hiro.

"A woman Sylar killed to take her ability," Hiro explained. "The ability to tell if someone is lying. He killed her in her office. On her birthday."

Claire swallowed hard, and stared at Gabriel. Gabriel stared at the floor. Peter drew himself up.

"Okay, so this Flynt guy is her uncle and he's after us. What about Noah?"

"Yeah—did you find my dad?" Claire asked quickly. Emma finally stood up, and began watching Hiro closely as she wiped off her hands. Hiro and Ando nodded.

"Noah escaped," Ando said. "He is hiding with a small group of other people who have abilities—some ones from Samuel's carnival. He has been helping us with our investigation."

"So what makes you think Flynt is heading here?" Peter asked.

"He has been hunting specials," Hiro said, his voice grave. "Locking them up or killing them on sight. They are scattering everywhere—no big city is safe. But the other day, we found a report that eventually came out on the news—a report Flynt will investigate." Hiro's gaze landed on Gabriel. "Some motorcycle men said they saw an angel."

Everyone went still. Emma's brow furrowed.

"An angel?"

"Gabriel," Peter whispered. Hiro nodded once.

"Yes. Gabriel. And they said he could fly, and shoot lightning from his hands, and pick them up into the air."

"Most people thought they were just crazy, or drunk," Ando said. "But Flynt is putting the pieces together."

Peter felt Emma's hand brush his. He opened his fingers and entwined his with hers.

"Okay, so you think he's getting close?" Peter pressed. Both Hiro and Ando nodded.

"Very," Ando said. "He may be sending a team this way soon."

"So we should leave," Gabriel said.

"Noah has another plan," Hiro stated. "This is only revenge for Flynt. Noah says if we turn Sylar over to Flynt, Flynt would stop hunting the others. And us."

No one said anything. Claire's face turned red, and she looked down. Fire rose in Peter's chest.

"Absolutely not," he said firmly.

"Peter, you haven't even thought about—" Ando started.

"No, this is non-negotiable," Peter shot back, gripping Emma's hand. "We're a team—we're a family. The second we start turning on each other, the sooner we invite an end to all of us."

"You call _him _your family?" Ando cried. "I _still _don't understand—"

"I don't care if you do or don't!" Peter roared.

"Peter—" Gabriel murmured.

"No, no, no," Peter shook his head. "And I don't care what Noah says, either." He turned and met Gabriel's worried eyes. He lowered his voice. "We are not turning you in. Period. End of story." He faced Hiro and Ando. "So what's plan B?"

The two friends sighed, glanced at each other, and then Hiro spoke.

"Well…We can go right back to New York and see if we can stop Flynt there, before he comes here, whatever way we can, and you…" He shrugged. "Could find somewhere else to hide."

"Okay, I like that plan better," Peter said.

"It's not really a plan," Claire muttered, still flushed.

"It's better than turning Gabriel over to that man," Emma decided. "We can find another place."

"Okay, good," Peter nodded. "We'll leave really early tomorrow morning, after we're all packed."

"You should leave now," Hiro advised.

"That's an overreaction. Flynt can't teleport here. It'll take him a day or two," Peter countered. "Besides, we don't even know where we're going, and we can't see in the dark."

"Fine," Hiro said shortly, his expression closed. Peter instantly stepped toward him put a hand to his shoulder.

"I'm sorry Hiro—we really are grateful for everything you've done, okay?"

Hiro's irritation disappeared, and he smiled.

"Okay." He grew serious, his bright eyes holding Peter's. "Just be careful. There is no telling what a man will do for revenge."

Peter nodded.

"Thanks."

Hiro reached out a hand to Ando. Ando sighed heavily, looked at Claire, Emma, Peter and Gabriel, then took Hiro's hand. The next second, they disappeared. Emma pushed a strand of hair out of her face.

"I guess we didn't need to make more food," she murmured. Peter glanced at the mess he had made.

"Guess not. But we'd better eat it all, anyway. Who knows when we'll get to eat again."

VVVVVVVVVVV

I sat on the couch in my library, reading by the light of a single kerosene lamp. I was only in the middle of The Princess Bride.

A sad wind blew around the walls of the house, moaning. I tucked my feet under myself and wrapped my blanket around my shoulders. I closed the book and sighed at the number of pages left. There was no way I would finish.

"You could always take it with you," a quiet voice noted from behind me. I did not turn.

"In the common vernacular, that's called stealing," I growled.

I sensed a shrug.

"Think of it as borrowing…without permission."

I rolled my eyes.

"Oh, well _then _it's okay."

Movement finally caught my eye, and I looked up to my left to see Sylar's shadowed form trail into the room, hands in his pockets, eyes scanning the half-dark spines of the books on the shelves.

"Something you wanted to 'borrow'?" I jabbed, though I kept my voice down. He shook his head.

"No," he said absently. "I've read all of these."

My eyes flashed, and I glanced around the room.

"Um…_all _of—"

"Yes." He faced me. He shrugged again, lifting one eyebrow. "Peter and I had a lot of time to kill up here." He tapped his temple. I didn't know what to say to that, so I returned my attention to my book. But he knew I wasn't reading. He shifted, and I felt him grow restless.

"I don't understand Peter," he muttered. I frowned at him.

"What do you mean?"

His shoulders tightened, and his brow furrowed.

"Why he keeps insisting on not turning me in." He lifted his face to me. "It's what ought to happen—he knows that and so do I. So does everyone."

I stared at him.

"W-What?" I stammered.

He glanced at me, then moved to the tall window.

"Don't imagine that Peter is ignorant," Sylar murmured, bracing his hand on the window frame and gazing out. "He knows everything I've done and said and felt. But he's forgiven me." His voice quieted. "So he doesn't see, anymore. He doesn't comprehend the hatred other people still feel toward me. The _justified _hatred." He lowered his head. "He has forgotten on purpose." He gave me a half smile. "Unfortunately, I can't expect that kind of grace from everyone."

My hands closed tightly around the book. His smile faded, and he gazed at my face.

A car door slammed. I froze.

"What was that?" I hissed. Sylar's head whipped around to face the window. And then he lifted a finger. The kerosene lamp went out.

We plunged into darkness. I stayed still, listening. For a moment, there was nothing.

And then the front door blasted open.

I leaped to my feet, almost falling over my blanket. Shouted commands banged through the lower rooms, along with dozens of heavy, booted footsteps. I clasped my throat with both hands.

"They found us," I gasped.

"We see you!" one voice bellowed from the parlor. "Come out from behind there! Now! Both of you!"

"Sir, what is the meaning of this? Why have you broken into our—"

"Shut up and put your hands on your head."

"Peter," Sylar cried softly in recognition. I heard him start toward the door.

"Stop!" I yelped, stretching out a blind hand.

"I can't," Sylar's voice was frenzied. "Peter's down there and they're going to—"

"No, don't!" I insisted, though my chest felt like it was ripping open. "They know what you look like! If you go down there and save them, they'll be _sure_ to blame Peter and Emma for the murders!"

Sylar's ragged breathing echoed through the room.

"You're right," he said hoarsely.

"You can't do this," Peter's voice rang out.

"Oh, we can't? This isn't even your house. Get on your knees."

"But—"

"_Do it!"_

A table lamp crashed to the floor.

"Don't hurt him!" That was Emma's voice. And then a wicked slap resounded. She yelped. Peter swore violently. I covered my face with my hands, locking my own cries in my throat.

"Claire," Sylar whispered through his teeth.

"What?" I rasped.

"Claire, come here."

"I can't see you," I snapped.

"You can hear me. Step this way and I'll meet you in the middle."

"Why?" I retorted, my mind spinning.

"Just do it. Please."

Trying not to trip over the blanket, my heartbeat hammering in my ears, I shuffled forward, my hands out in front of me.

Sylar's warm hands caught mine. And then he slid his arms around my waist and picked me up, pressing me to his chest.

"What are you—"

"If what you say is right," he muttered in my ear. "We can't even _be _here."

And the window behind us swung open. Cold night win hit me. I twisted my head to see out—

And then we were airborne. We shot out into the moonless night, high over the rooftop and the dozen cars parked on the lawn of the bed and breakfast. We raced away at top speed, the wind tearing through our hair and clothes…

I wrapped my arms around Sylar's shoulders to keep from falling and gritted my teeth, realizing from Sylar's erratic heartbeat that _both_ of us wanted nothing more than to turn around, shoot straight back there and storm to the rescue.

But we couldn't.

We _couldn't_.

Not if we wanted Peter and Emma to have any chance at all.

VVVVVVVVV

Peter couldn't take hold of Emma's hand or arm as they were hauled out to the car—his hands and hers were handcuffed behind their backs. They opened a car door and threw him inside, and tossed Emma in right after him. She landed hard against Peter's shoulder.

Peter grimaced as the helmeted man slammed the door on them. He wanted to ask Emma if she was okay, but the only light came from a distant streetlamp, and it was behind him. She couldn't see him.

The next moment, a driver climbed into the car, started the engine, and with a rumble and the squeal of tires, they sped away from the bed and breakfast. A plastic partition separated Peter and Emma from the driver.

Peter grunted and shifted, trying to get more comfortable and help Emma to sit up. She huddled close to him, shivering. Peter twisted to squint out the back window.

Flynt's men, on his orders, had raided the whole house. Flynt—a tall, foreboding, silent presence—eyes hard, head bowed, had stood there in his long dress coat, saying nothing, scanning the living room, as the SWAT-like team had inspected every bit of the house.

But they had not found Gabriel or Claire.

Peter faced front again. His mind raced ahead of the car, fighting against the thought that all this was his fault, pondering where they were going, what Flynt was planning to do, where Gabriel and Claire had gone—

His thoughts ground to a halt. His jaw tightened. There was something he had to do before he considered himself, Gabriel, or even Claire. Something he had put off for too long already.

He turned his head and pressed his face to Emma's hair.

"Emma," he said, so she could feel him speaking. She lifted her face to him.

And he pressed a firm kiss to her lips.

For just an instant, Peter heard nothing—not even the sound of the car—and his heart skipped a beat in his chest. He broke from her. In the flash of a streetlamp, he saw her eyes widen.

"I've been meaning to do that for a while," he explained. "Just figured it was about time to get with the program."

He had no idea if she caught any of that. But after watching him in the shadows for a moment, she snuggled closer to him, tucking her head under his chin.

"Okay…" Peter let out a measured breath, closed his eyes—and let his mind race.

TO BE CONTINUED


	14. Chapter 14

_Oh, divine readers! ;) You make my day happy with your reviews. :D Keep them up! The song within this chapter is entitled "So Close" from "Enchanted." Enjoy!_

_VVVVVVVVVVVV_

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Our feet hit the ground in the middle of the woods. Breathing hard, vapor surrounded my head, lit only by a distant streetlight.

"Where are we?" I asked Sylar. Our feet crunched on pine-needles as we turned.

"Just a little way outside of the town just south of ours," he answered, sweeping his gaze all around us. "You saw—the cars stopped inside the city limits somewhere."

"Do you have some sort of plan?" I wondered.

"Flynt isn't going far," Sylar said. "He doesn't have what he wants. We have to figure out a way to get him out in the open." He looked at me. "If we play our cards right, we won't have to chase him. He'll come to us. We just have to find a way for him to contact us—but in a way that doesn't corner us."

"Wait—you want to _negotiate?" _I turned on him. Sylar gave a dark grin.

"I've found that pretending to negotiate is the best way to find out information, and to create opportunities. _Especially _if Peter and Emma are close by."

"Okay…" I had caught my breath, and now glanced toward the road. "So…what do you suggest?"

"I suggest we find someplace with a lot of people. A diner, a bar—"

"No."

He held up a hand.

"Okay, not a bar. A dance club or something. Something open late on a Friday night."

My gut tightened. But he was right, and I couldn't think of anything better. And Peter and Emma were tied up in the back of some government agent's car.

"Okay," I sighed. "Lead the way."

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

We walked right into town. I hadn't expected that approach. But Sylar led on, and I kept up with him. We hit a sidewalk, and walked beneath the bright lights of the main street.

Down the street, at the corner, I noticed about two-dozen parked cars in front of a taller, well-lit brick building that bore a marquee.

"What does that say?" I asked, squinting.

"City Ballroom Dance," Sylar replied. Then he glanced down at me, and slowed his long strides to match mine. I wrapped my arms around myself, wishing I had brought my jacket.

"He's watching us," Sylar muttered.

"How do you know?" I whispered, fighting the temptation to look around.

"Practice."

My mouth tightened, and I closed my hands into fists.

"Are you afraid?" he asked. I hesitated.

"I dunno." I bluffed weakly.

"Don't be," he said, his voice low. "I'll protect you."

I looked up at his profile—the contrasts of light and dark beneath the streetlamps—remembering how he looked when the blue lightning had danced across his features. But now, I saw something hiding behind his eyes. Something secret, resigned—sad. I kept my voice quiet, and spoke the truth, no matter how strange it felt.

"I know you will."

His subdued gaze fell onto mine. I didn't look away. His steps slowed, and he stopped. I stopped too. We were about a block away from the dance hall, and I could hear people talking and laughing both inside and outside of the building. Sylar held out his right arm to me, solemn and quiet.

"Shall we?"

I paused. But pressure built all around me—the pressure of the memory of Peter and Emma's panicked voices. So I nodded once, and took his arm.

He rested his left hand over mine, then guiding me straight toward the hall as if we were out for a night on the town. He felt warm next to me, and, shoving my reservations aside, I walked closer to him.

We passed a group of people outside the hall on the sidewalk who stood visiting. Sylar smiled broadly at them when they looked over.

"Hi, how are ya?" he greeted them. Their replies were equally friendly. Sylar then stepped forward, grabbed the door and opened it for me. Trying to act natural, I stepped over the threshold.

"I don't think I'm dressed nicely enough for this…" I winced, realizing I was wearing my casual blue shirt and loose black pants, and boot shoes that were not meant for this sort of thing.

"You're beautiful," Sylar said lightly. "Go on. I'm behind you."

We stepped into the loud, fairly well-lit, large room. On one side, there was a table where they were selling drinks and food. There were several people of all ages sitting in folding chairs around the edges of the room, but the bulk of them were in the middle, dancing. I halted.

"Well…" I let out a breath. "This cover is going to be hard."

"Why?" Sylar asked.

I gestured to the dancers.

"I can't _waltz_."

Sylar came around beside me and assessed the room.

"We can't stay around the edges," he said. "It's dark in the corners. Flynt either won't see us or he'll rob us of the publicity we need by cornering us unnoticed. The _ideal _place for him to approach us would be out among the dancers."

My stomach turned over.

"But…"

Sylar faced me and inclined his head.

"May I have the honor?" He held out his hand. I froze. The music stopped, people clapped and laughed, and then the lights lowered and they brought up some bluish, softer lights, and quieter music began. Sylar raised his eyebrows, and his smile was gentle.

I took his hand. He led me to the floor.

We took our place among the dancers, and I glanced at all of them. My heart was thundering.

_This is stupid, Claire, _I hissed to myself. _There are FBI agents after you and Peter and Emma and you're nervous about _dancing_?_

"Now, I know this will be a new thing for you," Sylar said quietly. "But you're going to have to let me lead."

I lifted my face and met his eyes. He gazed down at me, slipped his right hand around my waist, and took up my right hand with his left. My shaky left hand found his shoulder.

For a moment, we stood that way, silent. And then, with slight pressure against my back, he moved me into step with the other dancers, and the song began.

"_You're in my arms_

_And all the world is gone_

_The music playing on_

_For only two_

_So close together_

_And when I'm with you _

_So close to feeling alive…"_

The words closed my throat, and the nearness of his body to mine made my cheeks hot. I stepped on his foot. I grimaced, glanced downward and pulled back, only to step on his foot again.

"_Crap!" _I hissed, my heartbeat now alternating between fluttering and hammering.

"Claire." He pulled us to a stop. The other dancers whirled around us.

"Claire, look at me."

"I can't. I have to watch my feet," I protested.

"No you don't."

I raised my eyes. His captured mine. He shook his head.

"All you have to do is look at me, and let me guide you." The corner of his mouth lifted. "Don't worry. I'll steer."

I swallowed hard. He stepped closer to me, wrapping his arm more firmly around me. I could almost feel his heartbeat. He took a breath.

"Here we go." And he leaned, and led me into the dance again.

And I finally let go. And guess what?

I looked into his face. He looked into mine. And we actually danced.

"_So close to reaching that famous happy end_

_Almost believing this one's not pretend_

_Now you're beside me, and look how far we've come_

_So far_

_We are so close…"_

The music built and swelled, sweeping and triumphant and strong. Sylar spun me out, and I twirled, never letting go of his hand. He pulled me in again, hard, and we spun together—a whirl of light and feeling. My feet almost left the ground. His nose was an inch from mine, and the two of us were miles away from anyone else. I wondered what Sylar was seeing in the music using Emma's ability. If it looked anything like the way it made me feel, he would be blinded.

And then, the music quieted, and our feet slowed. I felt his breath catch, and his left hand gripped mine uncertainly.

"_Oh how could I face the faceless days_

_If I should lose you now?"_

He restored his grasp, tightened his jaw, and, in sync with the other dancers, he spun us once more.

"_We're so close_

_To reaching that famous happy end_

_Almost believing this one's not pretend_

_Let's go on dreaming_

_For we know we are_

_So close_

_So close, and still_

_So far…"_

The song tapered away. We slowed to a halt. The other dancers cheered and clapped, and congratulated each other. Sylar and I merely stood there, not breathing, our eyes locked.

I felt a finger tap my shoulder. I jumped, and faced the newcomer.

It was a tall, middle-aged blonde man with cool blue eyes and a carven face, and dressed in a suit. He smiled at me.

"Could I have the next dance?"

Sylar's hand tensed on my waist. And with his unspoken signal, I snapped back to reality. My blood ran cold as death. Sylar had been right.

It was Aaron Flynt.

I took a step back, pressing to Sylar's chest.

"I hope you don't mind," Flynt said, addressing Sylar.

"You're allowed one dance with the nice gentleman," Sylar said, and his deep voice through his teeth suddenly sounded like a wolf. "I'll be watching."

And then Sylar's warmth vanished from behind me. He had withdrawn. I clenched my jaw. Flynt smiled again, but the expression did not reach his wintery eyes. Without another word, he stepped in and took hold of me, and began leading me into the next dance with the others. I fought to keep in rhythm with him, stunned at how difficult it suddenly became.

"Claire Bennet," he said, his voice mellow and even, his eyes steadily on mine. "Just the woman I've been wanting to talk to."

"What do you want?" I demanded. His eyebrows went up.

"Easy, honey—I'll tell you what I _don't _want. I don't want to hurt you. Or your friends."

I frowned as he spun us.

"You kidnapped Peter and Emma."

"And they're fine, I promise you. It's all part of the plan."

"What plan?" I snapped. He just smirked. My eyes flashed.

"To get Sylar?"

He glanced down a moment.

"You'll be happy to know that no real warrant has been issued for your arrest," he said. "No one who has any brains believes that you, Peter Petrelli or your friend Emma are co-conspirators with a serial killer." His gaze burned into me. "But we wanted to drive you together, force all of you to work together, to become some semblance of Sylar's inner circle. Give him a sense of dominion, of security. Then, we counted on the fact that his obvious obsession with you would cause him to slip up, to make an error of judgment." Flynt smiled minutely. "And he has. He's let you in. He trusts you." Flynt pulled me closer, and into the center of the dancers. "That's exactly what we wanted."

"What about kidnapping Peter and Emma?" I reminded him fiercely. He shrugged.

"We wanted to get your attention. And I wanted to make sure you were willing to cooperate."

I looked at him sideways.

"Cooperate?"

"Yes. If you do what we ask, you, Peter and Emma will go free, and all of your names will be cleared."

My eyes narrowed.

"And if I don't?"

His hand gripped mine so hard it would have hurt. His expression lost all softness.

"I'll kill Peter and Emma myself."

My mouth fell open.

"But you just said—"

"I would prefer not to, but have no qualms about it," he stated. "In my mind, any freak of nature has the potential to do what Sylar did to my niece." His voice lowered to a deadly tone. "To me, it would be justice."

My blood still ran cold, and my chest turned to lead. I sucked in a breath that was hard to get.

"What are your terms?"

VVVVVVVVVVVVVV

Gabriel stood off to the side, his arms still warm from when he had held her. His eyes followed her every movement between the flow of dancers as Flynt led her around the room. Gabriel's mind was quiet, his breathing even.

He didn't have to hear what they were saying to know what was about to happen. He had known since Hiro had said Flynt was chasing them. He had realized the inevitable conclusion to this story.

And for once, he was not going to fight inevitability.

Because this time, it was right.

Gabriel folded his arms tightly over his chest, in an attempt to subdue the feeling that it was swelling up inside him. Yes, he knew what was right, and what he had to do.

But that did not mean that it was easy to stand motionless and silent while his heart—for the true and very first time—was breaking.

TO BE CONTINUED


	15. Chapter 15

_As always, thank you kindly. :D I hope you like this little chapter—it nearly made me cry writing it! Review!_

VVVVVVV

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

_The Beast, who had been sighing dolefully while she spoke_

_Now replied,_

"_I cannot refuse you anything you ask,_

_Even though it should cost me my life."_

_VVV_

I sat alone by a small fire under an outcropping of rock. It provided a little shelter from the cool wind, which had picked up. I wrapped my arms around my knees and stared blankly at the flames.

After Flynt had released me, I had returned and told Sylar everything. Even now, as I sat there, I couldn't believe my openness with him. I had told him Flynt's terms and time limit in which to make my decision. Sylar had not seemed surprised. Instead, he accepted what I said with a cool nod, and a glance that turned my heart to stone. I am certain that Flynt had expected me to keep all of it to myself. Maybe I should have. But I didn't trust Flynt. And if nothing else, I knew Sylar wanted to rescue Peter, too. I couldn't do that alone.

We had left the hall, and flown to this little spot outside of town, very close to the meeting place Flynt had specified. Then, with a promise that he would return in ten minutes, Sylar had left me, shooting off into the sky, abandoning me to my thoughts.

Footsteps sounded. My heart lurched. Then, I saw Sylar's familiar form move into the light, and I relaxed. He bore a small black backpack, but nothing else. His head was bent, his brow furrowed.

"What did you go do?" I asked. He didn't answer. Instead, he crossed to the other side of the fire, took off the bag and set it down, then crouched beside the flames. He watched their fingers rise and fall. And I watched him—studying each edge and curve of his face. I don't know why I had never noticed it before, but he was almost handsome.

He looked at me. I waited.

"I went to get what's needed to save Peter and Emma," he said quietly.

"So you have a plan," I sat up. He halfway smiled.

"It's very simple. Because it's not my plan."

My gaze sharpened.

"What do you mean?"

"I'll tell you. But you can't interrupt me. Just listen. Okay?"

I held his eyes. Uncertain, I nodded.

"Okay."

VVVVVVVVVV

Silence fell. The quiet sounds of the night surrounded us. But I didn't hear them. All I could see was him—his form soft in the flickering firelight. I felt nothing. The words of his plan seeped into my mind.

"You know what they'll do to you," I murmured. He glanced down at his folded hands.

"Yes. It makes sense." He took a breath. "And it's what hasto be done."

"And…You're willing to do that." It was not a question. He looked at me. His black eyes glittered.

"To make Peter safe for you…" His voice lowered. "I would do more. If that were possible."

I could say nothing. His gaze drifted off into the dark forest. A hint of a smile crossed his lips.

"What?" I whispered.

"Something just came to me," he murmured. "Something I read, a long time ago."

I slowly tilted my head, running my eyes over him.

"What is it?"

He took a breath, still addressing the shadows.

"'It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done," He gazed at me, and now his eyes shone. "'It is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known.'"

I swallowed hard. It hurt.

He got to his feet, and quietly came up to me. My legs suddenly weak, I stood up as well, and faced him. He glanced behind him.

"There's something in the bag…for you," he said, facing me again. "Look at it…after. It's nothing, really. I just want you to promise me you'll read it…_after_."

A shiver ran all through me, and my brow tightened. That meant something. It had to. It had to mean that there was one more step to his plan, one more element he planned to execute that he wasn't telling me about. Something that had to make this follow through not so dire, not so…final. Yes. There had to be one more step. A back door.

"Okay," I said. "I promise."

And there were his black eyes again—limitless and bright—catching my gaze and not allowing me to move, or even breathe. His eloquent lips parted, as if he was about to say something.

His watch beeped. He jerked, then glanced down at it. He swallowed.

"It's time."

Something inside me tore. He turned and unzipped the bag, then pulled out a long, fiberglass knitting needle. I went completely cold, and my face felt like ice. He came back to me, holding the needle in both hands. He stood just in front of me. I could feel him breathe.

"Claire?" he said.

"Yes?"

"One more thing."

"What?"

He took up my hands. His were warm around my icy ones. He pressed the end of the needle into my grasp, and then directed the pointed tip right up against the soft skin under his jaw. Our eyes locked.

"Make sure you hit the mark," he murmured. "That's the last thing I'll ask you—I hope it isn't too much." His hands gripped mine, tears in his eyes that did not fall. "I trust you to get it right the first time."

My whole body shook. I squeezed my eyes shut for an instant.

"Sylar—"

"You can do it," he murmured. I sucked in a breath.

"You may be making a mistake." My voice trembled. He smiled.

"I've made a lot of mistakes. This isn't one of them." He closed his eyes. "Go ahead."

He let go of my hands. I stood there, holding the knitting needle against his throat for a long moment. His face tightened.

"What?" I demanded, suddenly trying to stall. He swallowed.

"Nothing. It's just…" He let out a short breath. "I would have liked to have seen Peter."

His watch beeped again.

"Hurry, Claire," Sylar murmured. "You don't have much time."

_Come on, Claire_, That hard voice said again._ This is what you wanted all along._

I braced myself with everything I had in me.

And I did what he asked me to do.

TO BE CONTINUED


	16. Chapter 16

_Okay, buckle up…And review!_

VVVVVVVVVV

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

"_I have promised the Beast faithfully I will come back,_

_And he would die of grief if I did not keep my word!"_

"_What would that matter to you?" asked the prince._

"_Surely you would not care?"_

It took all my strength to drag Sylar to the appointed place. But luckily, it was not far. His blood covered my hands. I had hit the spot directly. He was now "deactivated," the needle straight up through his weak spot—and he couldn't sense a thing.

Gasping and panting as I pulled him up the grassy hill toward the abandoned barn Flynt had specified, I did not allow my thoughts to travel at all. Even with my arms wrapped around Sylar's chest from behind, I focused hard on Peter and Emma, and paid no heed to what was happening somewhere inside my heart. Sylar's bag was securely strapped on my shoulders.

Clouds rolled overhead, and the wind tossed my hair. Four cars stood on the grass, their lights on, illuminating Flynt and four agents standing in front of the falling-down barn. I dragged Sylar up to them and tossed him down at their feet. His arms splayed limply out, and his head fell back. The long end of the needle sticking out of his jaw gleamed in the light. I kept my face blank.

"There," I panted, gesturing to him with my bloody hand. "There. You've got what you want. Now let Peter and Emma go."

Flynt just stood there, hands on his hips, gazing down at Sylar's unconscious form.

"So you did know his weak spot." His gleaming blue eyes found mine, and he grinned. I did not respond. I just closed my fists—they were chilled and sticky.

"How did you find it out?" Flynt asked.

"He told me," I muttered. Flynt looked at me in surprise.

"Really? Wow. I'm impressed." He walked around and inspected Sylar from the side. "Well, I guess every Sampson has his Delilah." He looked up at me again, and suddenly, all the malice was gone from his face. "I'm sorry about the way I've treated you thus far, Miss Bennet. I truly am. I just wasn't certain about what kind of person I was dealing with. In my line of work, it's usually better to ask forgiveness than permission, if you know what I mean."

I took a deep breath, and nodded. Flynt prodded Sylar with his toe.

"But now that we've got him, and you complied with everything, there's no reason for your friends to sit in the cramped car downtown anymore." Flynt waved to one of his men, who immediately flipped open a cell phone and made a call.

"What are you going to do with him?" I asked, pointing to Sylar.

"The only thing we know how to do, really," Flynt said. "Since this is a top-secret case, we're going to put him in the barn—it's a perfect cover—and burn it down. Make it look like an accident. Then, we'll come back when it's mostly cooled off and grind up his remains into ashes and scatter them."

"You're authorized to do that without a trial?" I was surprised. Flynt nodded.

"He's considered an enemy of the state, to be killed on sight." He sighed, and I saw his shoulders sag. "Finally, my niece can rest."

"Sir, they're released now," Flynt's man reported.

"Good," Flynt said. Then he turned to me. "They can put Peter on the line. Would you like to talk to him?"

I blinked, my mind spinning. But I managed to nod again. The man came over and handed me the cell phone.

"Peter?"

"Claire! Oh, thank God," Peter cried. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Are you?"

"Yeah, Emma and I are fine. They just let us go. Where are you?"

"I'm up on the big hill just east of town—there's a big, old barn up here."

"What? Why are you up _there?"_

I swallowed.

"Aaron Flynt wanted Sylar. So he's got him."

Peter went silent.

"Peter?" I said again.

"Okay…" Peter said slowly, trying to process. "So did Gabriel tell you when he'll be getting loose of them?"

I glanced over at Flynt, who was crouching next to Sylar, examining the knitting needle.

"He can't get loose. I put a knitting needle through his weak spot."

Peter drew in a breath that hissed in my ear.

"You _what?"_

"He told me his weak spot," I said, suddenly realizing that I wanted to get through to Peter the fact that I just _knew _Sylar had an exit strategy. But I couldn't say that so close to Flynt.

"He told you…Claire," Peter said hurriedly. "What are they going to do to him?"

"They're going to put him in the barn and burn it, then scatter his ashes."

"Oh, no—no, Claire, you can't let that happen," Peter's voice rose with desperation. "You don't understand—he'll _do _that, Claire! For you and me and—Gabriel will let them—Claire you have to stop them!"

Flynt arose, and came toward me.

"Claire, do you hear me?" Peter yelped.

"I'll talk to you soon, Peter," I said.

"_Claire!" _

I hung up the phone, and handed it to Flynt.

"Thanks," I said. He smiled and took the phone from me.

"That black limo's for you," he said, gesturing to a long, black limo that sat at the edge of the woods. "It'll take you into town as soon as we've got the fire going. There's food in there, and sanitary wipes and stuff for you to clean up with." He came up and put a hand on my shoulder. "Again, I want to emphasize that I had no intention of hurting your friends, or you. We just wanted Sylar. That's all. And since it turns out that you had the same goal, I'm sorry we used such rough measures."

"You had to know he killed my parents. You could have just asked," I pointed out. He chuckled.

"I'll keep that in mind next time." Then, he turned back to Sylar. "Okay, get him up."

Two men came around on either side of Sylar, picked him up by his arms and dragged him into the barn, their way lit by flashlights.

Subdued thunder rolled overhead, and the wind whirled around us. I ducked my head and made for the limo, already peeling the bag off my back. I jumped inside and shut the door.

There was no driver. Apparently, they actually did trust me.

Light flashed outside. I jerked to look. Two agents had gas cans, and were circling the barn, spraying the base of it. And another agent bore a small flame-thrower, and walked a way behind them, igniting the old barn wood. The hungry flame climbed the wall in no time, lighting up the night sky.

There was no time to waste. I pulled the bag onto my lap, unzipped it, and reached inside for whatever Sylar had left for me.

My hand landed on an envelope. I quickly pulled it out. It bore my name. Good. Here were my instructions—the next plan of attack. His exit strategy. I had to read fast, and act on whatever he had planned.

I quickly unfolded the paper, and once more found that black-inked writing, inscribed with that same, familiar, strong penmanship. But I blinked, my brow furrowing. It looked like another sonnet. And as I read, my heart turned to ice.

_Claire,_

"_No longer mourn for me when I am dead_

_Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell_

_Give warning to the world that I am fled_

_From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell:_

_Nay, if you read this line, remember not_

_The hand that writ it; for I love you so,_

_That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot,_

_If thinking on me then should make you woe._

_O, if, I say, you look upon this verse,_

_When I perhaps compounded am with clay,_

_Do not so much as my poor name rehearse,_

_But let your love even with my life decay;_

_ Lest the wise world should look into your moan,_

_ And mock you with me after I am gone."_

_ Until death,_

_ Your Gabriel_

My breath snagged in my throat as my hands tightened on the paper. There was no back door. No plan of attack. No exit strategy. He had never planned on getting out of this alive.

He was going to die for Peter and Emma.

And for me.

TO BE CONTINUED


	17. Chapter 17

_Okay, I had mercy on you and posted earlier than I planned. :) Have a blessed Good Friday._

_VVVVVVVVVVV_

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

"_Bittersweet and strange_

_Finding you can change_

_Learning you were wrong."_

_-Beauty and the Beast_

Time slowed until it seemed it did not move. I sat there, staring at the lines of the sonnet, unable to see them. My breath came to a standstill. And for just an instant, a vision flashed in front of my eyes.

I knew it was not prophetic. Neither was it false. Instead, it was a possibility—one that I had refused to consider or even imagine. But it would not be put off any longer. It raced before my eyes with vivid, terrifying, truthful clarity.

It was my life.

My life, stretching on and on in front of me. I walked through it as I would walk through a narrow path between the headstones of a graveyard—unable to halt my steps to linger beside any of the markers. Only here…the headstones were people. And events…and decades…and centuries…

Wars. Revolutions. Scientific discoveries. Journeys to Mars and beyond. Hurricanes. Earthquakes. Floods. The rise and fall of great nations. The births and deaths of hundreds of people. Kings and peasants blooming and thriving only to wither and fade in the time it took me to merely pass by.

And there I walked, unscathed, unchanged, in the midst of all of it…

But belonging to none of it.

For though many of those near me called my name, and reached for me, I had no power to go to them, to comfort them, to be with them. Because I was not one of them. And if I hesitated at the sound of their voices, if I tried to draw near, then all that would result was my being forced to watch as the rosiness vanished from their faces, and they wrinkled, and decayed, and vanished as if they had never been, all the while resenting me for the youth I would always possess.

A single set of footsteps sounded on this path: my own. I glanced behind me at the distance I had traveled. Eons stretched out in my wake. Eons of solitude.

However, far back—far, far back—I could still barely see a fork in my path. It was the only one. It was marked by ash and burned earth. It was a turn I had chosen not to take, and thus it was barred by an unmoving iron gate. But I could still see beyond the gate.

Beyond the gate, I could see a person. A person who had done something wrong to me, long ago. I couldn't remember what it was—too many years stretched between—but it only amounted to a pinprick compared to the decades of suffering I had experienced since. The person was a man—a young man with limitless black eyes and a gentle smile. A young man who would walk beside me, faithful and steady. And beyond that gate, with him, I heard the ringing of laughter.

There were children. Dozens of them. Some had brilliant golden hair, others jet black. They followed behind the young man and me on a wide path, giggling and playing. Some of them had my ability, and trailed along right behind us as a band of immortals, beautiful and lively, like elves and sprites. Others did not possess immortality, but branched off from the path, bore families of their own, and created great legacies in medicine, technology, discovery, and faith. They became the pillars of nations; strong, good and brave.

The young man and I, leading our brood, traveled together through sun-bathed meadows, savoring the laughter of our children and breathing the open, windy air. Centuries stretched out behind us and before us, but we had eyes only for each other, and the darlings dancing behind us. Beyond that gate, I had learned that I was wrong: Being with him was _infinitely _better than being alone.

But I watched these phantoms from a great distance, as I stood amongst the silent graves. And the meadows and children and sunshine vanished like smoke in the wind. For that possibility was dead, and the gate that led to it was locked. Because when I had first come to that fork in the path, centuries ago, I had let that young man burn alive in a barn.

Because of a pinprick.

I jolted back to reality, gasping, tears brimming in my eyes. A car door slammed. I whipped around to stare out of the limo window. Flynt and his men were climbing into their cars. One of them was heading toward me, to get into the limo to drive me into town to find Peter and Emma.

Stuffing the sonnet into my pocket, but leaving the backpack behind, I scooted over and opened the car door closest to the forest. I slipped out onto the ground as silently as I could, backed up and pushed the door closed. Then, I turned, lay down, and rolled down the slight hill into the underbrush of the woods. I froze.

The limo driver came around the front of the car, got in, and started the engine. I ducked my head, holding my breath, silently praying he would not notice I wasn't in the back seat.

He didn't. He drove away.

I eased my head up, and watched the other government cars speed off.

And finally, the only thing that stood before me was a towering, consuming, savage fire that chewed and clawed at the barn where Sylar lay.

"A fire? That's it?" I growled, climbing to my feet. "Bring it on."

VVVVVVVV

Peter's boots thudded against the paving as he ran, side by side with Emma, straight up the road in the direction Claire had told him. His breath came in painful gasps and his heart ached, but he pushed his muscles harder. Emma kept up with him. He could feel them both weakening.

He skidded to a halt. Emma stopped beside him, her breathing labored.

"What's that?" he panted, pointing. For against the sky, a light had bloomed—a hellish, orange glow against the low clouds.

"It looks like a fire," Emma said, squinting. Peter raked his hands through his hair as terror choked his veins.

"Oh, no." He snatched up Emma's hand and pulled. "No, no, _no_."

TO BE CONTINUED


	18. Chapter 18

_And…here it is, the chapter you've all been waiting for!! Hope you enjoy, and review!_

_VVVVVVVVVVVVV_

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

"_Can you really love such an ugly creature as I am?" _

_Asked the Beast faintly._

"_Ah, Beauty..._

_I was dying because I thought you had forgotten your promise."_

VVV

I charged straight at the roiling flames. I barely looked at them. They didn't scare me.

The agents had left the front door of the barn open, but now it was a wall of fire instead. My long strides turned into a run. My arms pumped, my feet flew over the ground. And I dove straight through.

I felt the flames sear me as I passed through them. The skin of my face and hands instantly closed back up. I landed hard inside the barn, on the crackling hay. I rolled, and dragged myself to my feet, ducking low. Smoke clogged the air. I covered my nose and mouth with my hand. Sweltering heat pressed in on me. My eyes began to water. The walls were covered by red, dancing flame, and the spitting, burning tongues crawled along the floor like a brood of snakes. I bent down and shuffled forward, my blurred vision searching for any sign of Sylar.

My foot found him before my eyes did. My toe ran into the bottom of his shoe. Then I saw that they had covered him in straw, and the flames had already reached both his sides, threatening to cover him like a blazing shroud.

Falling to my knees, I dashed the burning straw away from him, the flames biting my hands like adders. I could not hold my breath any longer—I grimaced and inhaled.

My body immediately rejected that air, and I choked. The overpowering heat swept in waves over my body. I pounded out the fires that had started on Sylar's sleeves. Then, I grabbed him, heaved his upper body up off the floor, turned and dragged him straight back, toward the low back door of the barn, where the wooden door still stood, instead of a complete wall of flame. I built up as much speed as I could, and struck the door with my shoulder.

It gave way before me, weakened by the flames. Wood crashed down around me, and the fire slashed my skin open.

The next second we broke out into the cool, clear night air. My skin sealed itself. I sucked in a deep, desperate breath, then coughed and coughed, keeping my grip on Sylar as I cleared my lungs. I felt as if my muscles were tearing as I dragged him a safe distance away from the roaring blaze.

Finally, I could go no further. I thudded to my knees and lowered him onto the grass. My gaze flew over the raw burns on his hands, arms and neck. I forced back my nausea, knowing they would heal in an eye blink. Quickly, I patted out the embers that hung in my hair, on my shirt and pant legs, and those that remained on him.

Then, steadying myself, I slid my hands up, braced one hand against his jaw and gripped the knitting needle with the other. I tugged on it.

"Okay…Okay…" I gritted as blood oozed out of the wound onto my fingers. The long needle came loose with a sucking sound, and I tossed it. It clanged against a tree in the darkness.

Sitting back and breathing hard, I wiped my hands on my pant legs. The hellish blaze behind me lit him up almost like day. I waited, watching for the first sign of breath from him.

He didn't move.

"Relax," I told myself. "It takes a second. Just give him a second."

However, the seconds ticked by. The fire hissed and spat and growled behind me. His chest did not rise or fall. His eyelids did not flutter.

"Sylar," I called, scooting closer and taking hold of his collar. "Sylar. Hey. _Hey_." I shook his shoulders. "Hey, it's Claire. Can you hear me?"

He made no response. I went still. My hand moved to his throat. I pressed my fingers against his jugular and held my breath.

Nothing.

I stared at his face.

"Sylar?"

His eyes stayed closed.

"Sylar, come on—don't do this," I slid my arm under his shoulders and pulled his upper body onto my lap, shakily supporting his limp head with my right elbow. "Sylar, come on." I rubbed his still chest hard with my left hand. My throat tightened and my vision blurred. "I know you're in there, now come _on!"_ I shouted, tears breaking into my voice. But the wound in his jaw wasn't healing. Neither were his burns. My breathing accelerated as my heart crashed against my ribs.

"Sylar, you have to _try_," I commanded, laying him flat again and pushing repeatedly on the center of his chest with both hands. I used all my force, over and over. Again, my fumbling fingers found his throat.

My fingertips did not rise and fall with any effort of his heart.

His pulse was still.

I leaned over him, feeling beneath his nose for any sign of breath.

There was none.

"No, no, _no. _You can't do this," I moaned, as tears fell from my eyes and landed on his pale face, like raindrops hitting a marble statue. A sob ripped through me and my desperate hand fluttered up to stroke his forehead and run my trembling thumb along the bridge of his nose and his soft cheek.

How had this happened? I had known him to revive before after a weapon was removed from his weak point. Why was this taking so long?

My thoughts ground to a halt. Then, they slowly started down a path that made me feel as if I had swallowed glass.

What if that had not been his "weak spot" in the sense of the word that I knew? What if it had instead been his Achilles' heel—the spot that would literally, permanently, kill him?

With the suddenness of lightning, shattering panic seized me, along with a foreign, piercing anguish that flooded my veins. And at last—too late—I cried out his name.

"Gabriel!" I urgently smoothed his hair away from his forehead. "Gabriel, please…Please don't. Don't leave me here alone." I took his face in my hands, searching his features with frenzied desperation. "I forgive you," I gasped, my tears running down, my thumb tracing his strong brow. "I forgive you, and I…I…" I squeezed my eyes shut. Tears scalded my face. I blinked several times, then, as the wind blew through my hair, I leaned in and closed my lips over his and pressed deep.

I tasted my own tears. I remembered the feel of his soft mouth. I felt my heart break.

And then…

His lips moved.

I broke away from him, jerking back, gasping.

His black eyes snapped open. He stared at me—straight _through _me—as if I had just said out loud what I had been feeling in my heart. And what he understood filled his glittering gaze with awe.

And the wound beneath his jaw closed.

"Gabriel—" I gasped. But before I could finish, he sat up, his healed hands slid around my neck and his mouth collided with mine.

I threw my arms around his shoulders, explosions going off in my mind. He pulled me to him, hard, and our mouths moved in fierce, sudden, panicked joy. We knew nothing of rhythm, completely unfamiliar with each other's taste or pacing—we floundered, but repeatedly, rapidly, found each other's lips until neither of us could breathe.

His mouth broke from mine, and he pulled back. I blinked and cleared my eyes. And my heart pounded once, with a massive, painful thud. His eyes widened.

"I'm sorry," he rasped. I couldn't speak. Gabriel glanced up, past me, at the tumbling, burning barn. Then, he gazed into my eyes, and held me transfixed.

"Gabriel!"

The voice darted over the lawn, ringing out over the roar of the blaze. Gabriel instantly released me from his arms and got to his feet. Concern flashed in his eyes.

"Peter—"

And the next second, Peter appeared, running full-tilt. His footsteps faltered for a moment as he caught full sight of his friend. Then he stepped forward, threw his arms around Gabriel and buried his face in his shoulder.

Gabriel staggered, his face showed nothing but broken, vulnerable shock. And then he wrapped his arms tight around Peter and leaned his head against his, closing his eyes. I heard Peter make a choking sound, and then he pulled back and took Gabriel's face in his hands.

"What the heck were you thinking, huh?" Peter scolded, his eyes watery. He grabbed Gabriel's shoulders hard. "Don't you _ever_ do that again, understand?"

Gabriel grinned, stepped in and hugged Peter again, sincerely.

"I promise."

Gabriel's eyes then found Emma, who wasted no time in closing the distance and wrapping him up in a soft embrace. Peter's gaze landed on me. The next moment, I was in his arms, and I could feel his heart hammering.

"Are you okay?" Peter gritted.

"Yeah," I nodded into his shoulder. He let me go, but I kept my arms around his shoulders. He ducked his head.

"I thought you were going to let them kill him," he managed, his gaze flitting up to mine. Emotion choked my throat, and all I could do was hug him again. I looked over his shoulder at Gabriel, who still held onto Emma. Gabriel met my eyes—and I gave him the first true smile he had ever received from me.

VVV

"_Oh, Beast, how you frightened me!" she cried._

"_I never knew how much I loved you until just now,_

_When I feared I was too late to save your life."_

TO BE CONTINUED

_Yes, I did write "to be continued" here on purpose. There is one more chapter. ;)_


	19. Chapter 19

_He is Risen!! And so here is my Easter gift to you. I hope you enjoy the ending as much as I enjoyed writing this story, and I hope you leave a review telling me if you did—even if it's just a smiley face. I have enjoyed hearing from __**all**__ of you, and am so glad you chose to go on this adventure with me. _

_VVVVVVVVVV_

CHAPTER NINETEEN

"_Therefore, if anyone is in Christ,_

_He is a new creation;_

_The old has gone,_

_The new has come!"_

_-2 Corinthians 5:17_

_VVVVV_

As usual, the Company was brought in—though not to a great extent. I wasn't particularly comfortable with it, but I knew it had to be done—and fast—so we called in Dad to help, merely telling him that Flynt thought he had killed _Peter, _and we needed to maintain the charade. Gabriel, Emma, Peter and I got safely away from the barn, and Dad, Ando and a small crew—transported by Hiro—brought in another body to substitute. Dad lightly said it was Samuel's body. He was joking. I think. Not sure. I didn't see it, and I decided I didn't want to know. And I'm not sure what the FBI limo driver told Flynt when he found out I wasn't in the back seat. Apparently nothing—probably in fear of losing his job.

After the barn and the body were completely consumed in flames, we all retreated further and watched the local firefighters and police appear on the scene and contain the blaze—and saw Flynt and his FBI agents investigate the ruins.

Then, Dad, Hiro, Ando, Peter, Emma, Gabriel and I dragged ourselves to a diner for an early-morning breakfast…

And we told Dad the _real _story.

Needless to say he was…speechless. And I really didn't expect him to digest the whole thing for quite some time. Ando was equally shocked right down to the floor. But I think he finally believed.

The next day, to all of our relief, Flynt appeared the news, and announced that Sylar, the mass murderer, had been killed and destroyed.

And the odd thing was…

It was the truth.

It had taken me a while, but I had come to realize that Peter was right. Sylar had died during those virtual years within that mental prison. The bloodthirsty murderer had never come out of there.

But Gabriel, the quiet-mannered watchmaker, _had _come out. And now he could start a new life. We all could.

The manhunts ceased immediately. My dad, on the other hand, was going to take some convincing. He didn't say much to Gabriel. He just agreed with Peter concerning the fact that all of us still needed to maintain a low profile for a while, while we waited to see if Flynt was sincere about leaving us alone. And so…

Dad arranged for us to rent the bed and breakfast.

I hadn't even thought that was possible, since the son of the old owners had supposedly been so adamant. But my dad is a persuasive man, and I guess he won the son over in the end.

So, we moved in. For real, this time. Dad brought all my stuff and all Peter's stuff up there, along with a lot of his own things. Hiro and Ando helped transport Emma's things. Dad took up residence on what had become the men's floor, the lower floor, of the bed and breakfast—although I knew he wasn't too thrilled about sleeping two doors down from Gabriel. But it was clear why he had come. He wanted to keep an eye on me, to protect me. Also, he mentioned something about getting the Haitian up here to clarify and verify everything—and he was slightly amazed that all of us just looked at him and shrugged our consent to that. I, however, didn't care what his reason was for being there, or bringing the Haitian. I was glad he would be nearby to see the change that had come over Gabriel. Over all of us.

Emma and I took up a more permanent residence in our cheery yellow room, Peter spread out to two rooms (one sleeping room, one workout room), and Gabriel went back and forth a lot between his nautical room and the library.

Peter and Emma soon found jobs at the local hospital, which relieved both of their minds. Neither of them did well in stagnation. And once, when they didn't think I was nearby, I eavesdropped on their casual discussion of the merits of a summer wedding.

Dad traveled between the bed and breakfast and New York, looking for a job that might take him away from working with specials, for once. I took a part-time position at the library downtown. And Gabriel opened up a little shop in the dining room of the house—a watch and clock repair shop. We even found a church in town to attend. Talk about a sight both startling and endearing: Peter and Sylar—Gabriel—dressed up to escort Emma and me to church.

I knew that it was impossible for all of us to disappear from the radar and suddenly live normal, carefree lives. For one thing, all of us except Dad had weird, freaky powers. And for another, none of us were particularly inclined to remain inconspicuous. We all longed to fix, to save, to cure. Something would eventually call us away from this sunny place—a grave danger would cause us to rush to the rescue. But this time, instead of attacking it individually, we had each other. We were a tightly-knit, solid unit, bound together with a loyalty so fierce that not even death could break it.

And also, this time—we had a sanctuary; a quiet, secluded place to return to after our adventures had finished. A place where we could be ourselves, and rest, and laugh out loud.

And these two things—loyal friends, and a sanctuary—made up a single word—a word I had not truly used in years, and one whose meaning I had never felt to this extent. A word I would fight to keep, no matter the cost. A sacred word, a cherished one:

Home.

EPILOGUE

I yawned and got ready for bed. It was early, and nobody else wanted to sleep yet, but I had worked at the library and then planted fifty bulbs in the garden all day, and I was tired. Commanding Peter, Emma and Gabriel to be _quiet_, I had shut the bedroom door and now started to turn out my nightstand light and crawl under the covers.

I saw something lying on my bed sheets. I went still.

It was from Gabriel. I knew it was.

Neither of us had spoken much since that night on the hill. We had exchanged long looks, and occasional smiles. But our manner toward each other remained hesitant, and our willingness to open up was uncertain. Yes, I had forgiven him. But it was going to take a long time for me to truly come to comprehend what exactly he felt for me. Even longer for me to confess what _I_ had been feeling when I rescued him from that fire.

I knew my reluctance pained him. I also knew there was nothing I could do about it. I couldn't change my nature. I needed time, and multiple proofs, before I could be certain that the ice was firm under my feet.

I edged closer to my bed, gazing down at the gift he had left me. It was a red tulip—that same tulip that I had watched come up from the earth so carefully and cautiously all that while ago. I picked it up by its delicate but strong stem. It was a beautiful blossom—brilliant scarlet, vibrant and sweet-smelling. I glanced down. A piece of paper lay beneath it. I picked it up and unfolded it, and my sight was greeted by the familiar, black-inked handwriting. I recognized the passage right away. It was a quote from The Princess Bride:

_"I've been saying it so long to you, you just wouldn't listen. Every time you said 'Farm Boy do this' you thought I was answering 'As you wish' but that's only because you were hearing wrong. 'I love you' was what it was, but you never heard."_

I stroked the words with my thumb. Then, I went into the bathroom and got a tall cup, filled it with water, put the tulip in it and set it on my bedside table. After folding the piece of paper and hiding it in my drawer, I got into bed, shut off the light, and fell asleep.

VVVVVVVVVVVV

_I knew it was a dream this time, even though it felt completely real. But it had to be. I had never been to Paris._

_ Yet here I sat on a stone bench, gazing up at the great bell towers of Notre Dame set against the pink of the fading twilight. I sat next to a young man dressed in black. My shoulder pressed against his, my left hand clasped within the strong warmth of his fingers. He was as close to me as my breath, as comfortable as my heartbeat. I flexed my fingers and rubbed my fingertips along his palm. I had memorized every unchanging crease and knuckle long ago, it seemed, and this motion felt like a common practice of mine. His hand moved, and he ran his thumb along the diamond ring on my hand. The ring was not a perfect circle anymore. It had conformed to the shape of my finger._

_ I glanced up at his face. He gazed up at Notre Dame, just as I had been doing, his limitless black eyes, ever bright, studying the highest spires, even though he had them memorized. I ran my eyes over his features—eloquent, dark eyebrows, prominent nose, delicate mouth and Grecian cheekbones and chin. _

_ I let go of his hand, twisted a little in my seat, and lightly stroked his temple, then ran my fingers through the back of his thick, black hair. He turned his head toward me, capturing my eyes with his, as no one else could. I kept my hand near his face, traced my thumb along the bridge of his nose, then across his smooth right cheek. The corner of his mouth lifted._

_ "What are you smiling about?" he asked, his voice low and sweet to me. My eyes flitted over his face, and I caressed his forehead, brushing aside a strand of his hair. _

_ "I was just thinking…" I began, then decided to be coy. "How remarkably well-preserved you look tonight."_

_ He chuckled, and curled his finger around the one of my long, golden locks. _

_ "I was going to say something like that to you," he confessed. "But I believe my comment would have included the words 'completely beautiful,' instead."_

_ "You flatter me, Mr. Gray," I said, enjoying a mock formality as I smirked. "But you don't have to compliment me after—"_

_ He dipped his head and pressed his lips to mine. My heart suspended its beating, then fluttered as our mouths moved in a familiar, thrilling rhythm. I seemed to recall that he enjoyed doing this—surprising me, making me forget what I was saying, melting my arguments with a kiss. _

_ Our lips parted and he gazed at me. I had indeed forgotten what I was saying. _

_ "Newlyweds?" A British-accented voice cut into our silence. My young man blinked, then looked up at the pleasant, gray-haired gentleman and smiled. _

_ "We are celebrating our anniversary, actually," my young man said._

_ "Oh, really? Perfect place for it," the old man declared. "How many years?"_

_ I hid a smile and arched an eyebrow at my husband. _

_ "Five," my husband replied. The old man tipped his hat._

_ "Well, then, good luck, and many happy returns!"_

_ "Thank you," I said as the man walked away. I nudged my husband with my shoulder. "So…are you going to make a habit of just subtracting a hundred years when you're asked that?"_

_ "Um, yeah," he said, draping an arm around my shoulders. "I mean, call me crazy, but nobody's going to believe that a fox like you has been a married woman for a hundred and five years."_

_ I laid my head on his shoulder._

_ "They would if they looked at the cathedral wedding records," I reminded him. He rubbed his fingers up and down my arm._

_ "That's true," he admitted. "They may still be recovering from our wedding—cleaning flower petals out from under the pews."_

_ I shrugged against him._

_ "Only get married once," I said. "Might as well make a big deal out of it."_

_ The warm breezes of the coming night sighed around us, and the music of Paris rose through the trees. My eternal husband leaned his head down on top of mine, and his arm tightened around me. I heard him swallow._

_ "I love you," he murmured. The words rushed through my veins and swelled against my heart—immediate and vivid and terrifying in their power. The evening air fell still, waiting for my answer._

My eyes opened. The chilled darkness of my room in the old, sad mansion greeted me. I took a breath. It sounded loud in the silence. I sat up. My bed squeaked. I just sat there for a minute, my arms wrapped around my chest. I looked around the room and swallowed. I was alone.

I cast a look down at my left hand. Strange disconcertion, then unease, settled in my stomach at the fact that it bore no ring. I messed with the edge of my blanket and fought inexplicable tears.

A soft sound drifted up the stairs. I frowned, listening for a moment. Then I realized it was Emma and Peter, still awake, practicing their duet. I got out of bed, drew my robe around myself, and padded out into the quiet hall.

The piano grew a bit louder as I crept down the stairs. I leaned on the railing and peeked around the corner to see Peter and Emma's backs in the parlor below me—they were seated in their customary place at the piano bench. A few lights were on, casting that familiar warm glow through the room. I glanced over to the darkness of the window seat.

Gabriel sat there, leaning back, arms crossed, listening to Peter and Emma, his brow furrowed. He wore black, which almost made him invisible in the shadows. I didn't say anything, and the stair where I paused didn't creak. But he looked up at me.

His eyes captured mine. And the corner of his mouth lifted. Then, he turned his attention back to the duet. I hesitated. Then, I slowly stepped the rest of the way down, crossed the rug, then halted beside him. I bit my lip…

And lost my nerve. I turned to retreat back to the solitude of my room.

And then he glanced up again, and scooted over just enough so I could sit. Holding my breath, I eased down next to him. Neither of us spoke. I was stiff. He didn't look at me. I gulped and tried to focus on the piano.

Peter and Emma's hands worked as one unit as they played. Occasionally, they flashed smiles at each other. The peaceful, homey sounds washed over me, persuading me to slowly relax. Finally, I leaned back against the window too, and folded my arms.

Peter and Emma flubbed, the piano plunked, and they let out a ringing laugh. Grinning, Emma bumped Peter with her shoulder, then pointed to the key he should have hit. They started up again without saying a word, perfectly in rhythm. My arms tensed around me as a pang traveled down through my chest. I glanced up at the one beside me.

His strong features looked soft in the gold light of the lamps. Quiet warmth waited in his eyes. There was sorrow in his brow. Sorrow I suddenly wanted to smooth away with my fingertips, and replace with peace and contentment, as I had in my dream.

I leaned my head over and rested my cheek on his shoulder. I froze, waiting.

He tilted his face toward me. And I felt the last bit of ice around my heart melt.

"Gabriel?" I whispered.

"Yes, Claire?" he murmured back.

I closed my eyes, and nuzzled minutely against him. I took a breath.

"Have you ever been to Paris?"

VVV

"_Beauty, will you marry me?"_

_She answered softly,_

"_**Yes, dear Beast."**_

_As she spoke a blaze of light sprang up_

_Before the windows of the palace;_

_Fireworks crackled and guns banged,_

_And across the avenue of orange trees,_

_In letters all made of fireflies,_

_Was written:_

"_Long live the prince and his bride."_

_Turning to ask the Beast what it could all mean,_

_Beauty found he had disappeared,_

_And in his place stood her long-loved prince!_

_At the same moment_

_The wheels of a chariot were heard upon the terrace,_

_And two ladies entered the room._

_One of them Beauty recognized as the stately lady she had seen_

_In her dreams;_

_The other was so queenly that Beauty hardly knew_

_Which to greet first._

_But the one she already knew_

_Said to her companion:_

"_Well, Queen, this is Beauty,_

_Who has had the courage to rescue your son_

_From the terrible enchantment._

_They love each other, and only your consent to their marriage is wanting_

_To make them perfectly happy."_

"_I consent with all my heart," cried the queen._

"_How can I ever thank you enough, charming girl,_

_For having restored my dear son to his natural form?"_

_And then she tenderly embraced Beauty and the prince._

…

"_Now," said the fairy to Beauty, "I suppose_

_You would like me to send for all your brothers and sisters_

_To dance at your wedding?"_

_And so she did, and the marriage was celebrated the very next day_

_With the utmost splendor,_

_And Beauty and the prince_

_Lived happily ever after._

FIN


End file.
